The Living Hunger

by Dennis F. Larsen

  The Security Chief left the rooftop but not before selecting two tactically trained but inexperienced fighters to go with him. Each carried their own side arm, 9mm in all circumstances so that ammo could be shared should a firefight erupt and any member of their unit run low on lead. It was not quite so simple with the heavier firepower. Farrell had plenty of ammunition for his Chinese assault rifle due to some rather fortuitous commodity trades on his way home from Korea. A scrounger from Detroit had stockpiled boxes of stolen ammo, food and weaponry illicitly acquired while serving his nation in his own special way. The Chinese shells had been a bargain in exchange for a couple of cases of scotch, liberated by Farrell from an officer’s quarters.

  A captain had insisted the Chinese assault rifle could not be brought onboard a US plane headed for the States. Farrell would have to turn it over to him for disposal. In his own colorful way Farrell had said, ‘Yeah, when hell freezes over!” before walking to the nearby latrines and pretending to throw the weapon into the 50 gallon drum under the seat. The Captain had been upset, knowing that the Chinese weapon would have brought a pretty penny on the black market, but was satisfied that the Sergeant wouldn’t have it either. A short time later, Farrell had followed the less than honest officer to his quarters and drop kicked him in the groin before finishing him with a haymaker to the jaw. The Captain’s room had been a smorgasbord of confiscated items from GI’s trying to get home. Farrell took what he could carry, including the cases of scotch, which he traded for the Chinese ammo. A few hours later the rounds, neatly stacked in packed crates, accompanied Jenson home from the Far East Warzone, along with the assault rifle, resting comfortably across his lap.

  The two young men, Cory and Clayton, were armed with guns of their own choosing. Cory was the company’s comic relief and shotgun specialist. A Mossberg Tactical 12 gauge looked at home in his hands. A black plastic stock and vented heat shield gave the gun a menacing appearance, but it was the nine shot magazine of 3” magnum shells, which delivered the true shock value. He’d found the gun hidden in the closet of a police officer’s home on one of the commodity runs the year before. It was obvious from the mummified corpses in the bed that they no longer had need of the excessive firepower.

  Cory was an enigma to most of the people living within the walls of the high school. He had been the sole proprietor of the property before Farrell, Gary and a few others showed up to turn the campus into a fortified compound. The leaders of the early small group had had no idea that for weeks, Cory had been living right underneath their noses. He had finally felt comfortable enough to confront them and give his permission for what they were doing to ‘his home’. At the time, he had only been 15, very slender and all of five foot four inches tall but unusually strong for his build. He literally knew the school inside and out. Every duct, every crawlspace, cupboard and room was laid out in the youth’s head so precisely that if he was left alone for seconds he could vanish without a trace. Over the past few years he had grown to be just shy of six feet tall, adding weight and mass sparingly, but in all the right places. The hours in the gym had paid off, giving him a ripped frame, toned rounded shoulders, without an ounce of fat on his body. This showed in his angular, narrow face, sunken tanned cheeks and large green eyes. Those who had seen the only picture he carried in his wallet often made the connection between Cory and his late father; they shared the same ‘Roman’ nose and thick, bushy brown hair.

  The young hunter had learned early from his father the art of shooting game and it had stuck with him. The two had traveled to South Dakota yearly to hunt pheasants along with other family members. Hundreds of rounds had been fired, honing the boy’s talent and aim. Judging wind, distance, and flight trajectory seemed to come naturally to the skilled, young hunting enthusiast but he had yet to test his shooting skills on a larger, more dangerous game, which he hoped he would never have to engage. Standing with the shotgun held loosely in his hands, he looked much too young to be doing a man’s work, but Farrell trusted the young man’s resolve and knew he could count on him if the going got tough.

  Clayton, on the other hand, was a wild card. He was so quiet that no one ever really knew what was percolating in his curly hair-topped head. Farrell knew one thing, which is why he selected him for this detail: Clayton loved Cory and was his biggest fan. He hung on every word Cory said, which were many and permeated with so much sarcasm and satire that Clayton was always laughing. Not your typical hardy laugh you’d expect to hear from a man that stood over six feet tall, but more like a giggle, punctuated with the occasional guffaw. Once you got Clayton going, it was almost impossible to get him to stop and it was infectious. In the circumstances that the group found themselves, day in and day out, there weren’t very many things to laugh about, which is why the C&C duo seemed to brighten days that should have been more despair than joy. The Security Chief also knew that Clayton could handle himself when the chips were down. His hand-to-hand combat skills were second to none, except for Mel; there was no one in the company who could lay a hand on the medical technician. Farrell wasn’t quite sure what it was about Clayton that helped him excel at grappling; perhaps it was his lanky frame with uncanny flexibility but he could be deadly with either his hands or a knife, if given the chance.

  Farrell walked around the two young men as they stood at a relaxed attention. He looked over their equipment including walkie-talkies, ammunition, pistols and rifles. “You loaded?” he asked.

  Both responded in unison, “Yes sir!”

  “I know I can count on you boys out there but don’t do anything foolish. We’ve trained for this, and I know this is your first real show but don’t be nervous. Don’t show them you’re scared. I suspect they’re here to see what it would take to steam roll over us and take everything we’ve worked so hard to create here. We will not budge! We will not show weakness! We are ‘bad’ and we will show that in our faces and attitude! You both got that?”

  Again, “Yes Sir!”

  “I don’t want either of you to draw down on anyone or anything unless you see me go for my weapon first, or if your life is threatened. I will do all the talking. Cory, no smart remarks! This will not be the time or place for that, capiche?”

  Cory looked at Clayton, who snickered. The joker then replied with a nod, assuring Farrell that he understood and would keep his mouth shut, at least for the duration of the assignment. Clayton, the taller of the boys, appeared to have a permanent nervous smile cut into his face. Feeling anxious and not wanting to disappoint either of his friends, his hazel colored eyes apprehensively darted back and forth from Farrell to Cory. Tousled, brown locks almost bounced as he quickly adjusted his head and gaze, his thick eyebrows dancing as he did. His smaller friend caught Clayton’s eyes for a moment and held them. Cory arched a brow and wrinkled his forehead, sending a clear message. What’s wrong? His friend’s concern quickly put Clayton at ease and a broader, more natural smile immediately graced his likeable, thin face and he winked at Cory.

  “Okay boys, they’ll be at the gates in a few minutes. We walk out, ready to talk or engage these guys. It will be up to them but we are the first line against anything happening to all our friends here in the school. Are you with me?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I said, are you with me!”

  “YES, SIR!”

  “That’s what I want to hear. Let’s get ‘er done.”

  The three, led by Farrell, left the weapons room and headed for the eastern exit of the building. Stepping from the front doors, they could see the dust created by the convoy rising in the immediate distance, just beyond the fortified perimeter. Two sentries with semi-automatic weapons could be seen kneeling down behind some sandbags arranged inside a reinforced shed, giving them a firing angle on the advancing trucks. The three double-timed it to the gate, arriving just about the same time the modified jeep rolled to a stop about 25 yards beyond the wire.

  From his position, Farrell could tell he’d been wrong about the leader.
He was not in the passenger seat but was alone at the wheel of the jeep. Sergeant Jenson couldn’t help but laugh, looking at the gargantuan individual tucked into the seat of the jeep, which now looked like a matchbox car in comparison. The man wedged between the steering wheel and the back of the seat had Cory biting his tongue, storing in his head a dozen quick one-liners that he’d use on his friends later, if there was a later. The lead white truck and army vehicle had stayed back another 50 yards in a possible sign of less aggression, but it was still dubious.

  “Okay boys, we will walk half way out, you drop back about ten yards behind me. I’ll watch the fat old boy there but keep your eyes on the trucks. If any shots are fired, don’t stay in the open, but hustle back to the sandbags and take cover before returning fire. Check your guns and make sure you got one in the chamber. Do it now!”

  They did as instructed and followed Farrell into the open, walking directly toward the jeep and the visitor. Farrell stopped at the halfway mark and looked behind him to see the two young men standing where he had indicated. Each had their eyes firmly fixed on the other trucks, Cory taking a kneeling position, his gun ready, resting across his left knee. Again, Farrell couldn’t help but laugh, watching the oversized man try to get out from behind the wheel of the jeep. The Chief held the assault rifle in his right hand but used his left to remove the cowboy hat from his head, shielding his mouth to hide the snicker that was sure to escape. Once the fat fellow had extricated himself from the jeep he ambled toward the trio, taking special note to leave his weapons on the vehicle’s hood. Farrell appreciated the sign of peace and lowered his own weapon to the ground but kept his right hand resting comfortably on the top of his Glock, making him look a little bit like John Wayne.

  When ten feet separated the two, Farrell issued a verbal warning, “Okay, that’ll be just fine, hold it there.”

  “Whatever you say, pardner,” the round leader said in a high-pitched, whiny voice that was almost feminine. “I’m Don Bullock and you are?”

  “Sergeant Farrell Jenson,” he said, wanting to make it obvious that Don was dealing with a vet and not a snot-nosed farmer with no blood under his nails.

  “Sergeant? Where’d you serve?”

  “Korea. You?”

  “Oh, hell no. I’m not the serving kind. I’d make too big of a target if you know what I mean,” he said, looking down at his belly and sweeping his hands as if to exaggerate his immense size.

  “So what can we do for you, Don?”

  “All business, huh?”

  “I’m afraid today we are,” Farrell said, angling his eyes to the other trucks, hardware, men and weapons.

  “Oh them, you don’t have to worry about them. They’re just keeping my butt out of the fire. You see, my group depends on me for leadership. They’d be lost without me,” he said, no sign of modesty in his presentation.

  Quite frankly, Farrell didn’t get it. Surely there was someone more fit, both physically and psychologically, to lead this group of survivors. “How are we supposed to take this? You roll up with a mounted heavy machine gun and a dozen guys in the back of that truck, all armed to the gills.”

  “Good guess, 15 to be exact. I never chance anything Farrell. I think you should know that I play to win. We control all of Weber and Davis counties and from mountain range to mountain range. Don’t underestimate me, as you can see we are well armed and organized. We don’t want any trouble with your little group and as long as you’re willing to stay put and leave our resources where they lay, we can be friends.”

  “That sounds like an offer I can’t refuse.”

  “It is.”

  “And if we don’t?” the Security Chief asked, again looking in the direction of the armed support units.

  “I don’t think you want to do that. I know what you’re fishing for and I won’t give you our numbers, but rest assured we could kick you out of this school today, if we had a hankering to do it. I will tell you this. You know the old army surplus store just off the freeway about 20 miles south of here?”

  “Sure, been there lots as a kid.”

  “Well, you can imagine the kind of stuff that was piled up there once people started to run for cover and collect goods. My buddies and me could see the importance of that place early on and we’ve had that as our base for years. I don’t have to tell you what that means.”

  “No, you sure don’t. So what is it you’re after? You trying to make this a better place, bring people together or you just power hungry?”

  The obese Bullock laughed, the ample skin and tissue under his undefined chin shook, beginning a ripple effect, rolling down his torso, ending in an abrupt splash at his tightly cinched belt. “You have me all wrong. I’m a good man, just a community organizer looking to keep his little fold protected from the wolves.”

  “Uh huh, I’ll bet.” Farrell glibly said. “Well, I’ll tell you Don, I don’t see any reason why we’d need to venture into your so-called ‘territory’, but I want the same promise from you. Your group will stay south of the I-15 turn off and leave our resources alone as well.”

  “That’d be only fair. I’d expect nothing less.”

  “So we have a deal?” Farrell asked, as the bigger man advanced toward him, his hand extended. Farrell removed his hand from the butt of the pistol long enough to shake Don’s, cementing the agreement, which he was sure meant little, if anything. He didn’t trust the soft-spoken behemoth and knew that once they’d exhausted their own limited resources the intruders would be back in Bear River wanting more. Farrell understood that his group controlled most of the useful farmland; packaged goods would only last so long before people would have to go back to the land for their sustenance.

  With the two men now face to face, Farrell could get a better look at Don. His facial features were minified by the fat that expanded his face, pushing his eyes, nose and mouth into the middle of a round pie-shaped expanse of puffy, white, fleshy pastry. His eyes were grey and beady and ears too small for a head the size of a pumpkin. His appearance gave Farrell pause, but more than ever the voice within his head told him this man was not to be trusted.

  “Listen Jenson, we both want the same thing for our people, right?”

  “Let’s say we do, so what?”

  “You got any way of communicating with the outside, government or anybody with some real power?”

  “Don’t think that’s any of your business, but let’s say I do.”

  “Well, I’m telling you, I definitely do and we are on our own. There are scattered groups, just like you and me, but there is no national or state police force, no military to speak of, at least on this side of the Rockies and nobody gonna show up with care packages to help us out. We’re going to have to learn to be best friends and I expect if I scratch your back that you’ll do the same for me. How does that sound?”

  “For now, let’s just say we’ll stay out of each other’s hair and see how that works out. If I need my back scratched, I can think of a number of lovely ladies here that I’d ask before you.”

  “You have it your way for now but I take what I need, when I need it, and your little friends there, with the pop guns, don’t scare me in the least.”

  Don raised his hand and made a waving gesture to the units parked a bit down the road. The white pickup suddenly accelerated and raced in the direction of the small cluster of men. Farrell pulled the pistol from its holster much faster than Don thought it possible, letting out a little shriek before saying, “Settle down, just want to show you something.” Farrell did not return the gun to the holster. The truck skidded to a stop, and a cloud of dust drifted through the air, causing the men to shield their eyes and cough the debris from their lungs.

  “Good hell, Roger! You didn’t need to practically run us over! I just wanted to show our new friends here what kind of firepower we’re toting,” he said, his voice rising even higher with the excitement stirring in the air.

  “Sorry, Mr. Bullock,” the middle aged man driving the pi
ckup yelled from the cab.

  The man standing in the bed of the truck, manning the machine gun, looked down at Farrell and said, “We meet again, Sergeant Jenson.”

  Farrell looked up into the eyes of a man that he vaguely remembered but could not place.

  “Don’t remember me do you? Why should you? About a year ago, you and your cozy little bunch turned my younger brother and me out, cost Andy his life. Tossed us away like garbage. If it wasn’t for Don and his generosity, I’d be dead too.”

  “Sorry to hear about your brother, wish it could have turned out differently for ya.”

  “I see how sorry you are. Keep it to yourself! I’ve found a home and we’re taking care of business,” he said, patting the Browning .30 Caliber machine gun mounted on the tripod, with a belt of ammo running from it’s side. “Ain’t that right Mr. Bullock?”

  “Indeed it is, Jimmy. Indeed it is.”

  Chapter 9

  Elva watched from the relative safety of a second story classroom, originally used as a chemistry lab, complete with Bunsen burners, sinks, tables and assorted chemicals arranged conveniently on shelves around the room. She was supposed to be with her mom and little brother in the secured lockdown of the women’s dressing room but she could not be kept from the action at the front of the school. Over the past year Elva had grown much too fond of Farrell for her own good. Her mother had repeatedly warned the young woman that men like Farrell were not the settling down type. However, Elva could not be swayed, the motherly advice, too often than not, falling on deaf ears. Her daughter’s countenance and doe-eyed look were no stranger to the wary Rose Allen. Years ago, she’d seen that same expression staring back at her from her own mirror when she’d fallen for her husband and soul mate.