The Security Chief could see mad panic frozen on a face pressed close to the cockpit window on his side; terror etched into his facial features, a desperate cry for help written there. A brief view of the pilot told of the fight he was waging to bring the plane in safely. As the aircraft passed the reinforced truck, Farrell wheeled the Ford into action, pursuing the plane at full speed. The view from the rear of the plane was startling, as it bounced through the sky like a yoyo, causing him to fear for the lives of the unknown passengers.
A short distance down the road, the crippled aircraft finally touched down, slamming hard into the asphalt, skipping back into the air for an additional 20 yards before pitching down for the last time, grinding the propeller to a stop. Farrell watched as sparks showered from the front of the crashing aircraft, cascading over the twisting metal as the undercarriage collapsed, sending the screeching hulk off the roadway and into the adjacent ditch. Without hesitation, Farrell slid his truck into position, broadside in the middle of the highway about 75 yards to the east of the smoking wreckage. He exited the truck quickly pulling the Chinese assault rifle from the cab, along with two fully loaded magazines, ready to unleash hell on anyone who would challenge him. The Chief hesitated for just a moment, ensuring that Cory and Rod were making their way to the downed aircraft. “Perfect!” he muttered under his breath, as he saw the jeep and additional truck speeding to the rescue.
Behind him, Farrell could hear rubber leaving the asphalt and Rod yelling orders to his team. Before he was able to hear the sound of incoming rounds, he saw shells ricocheting off the pavement. Others stitched across the truck’s bed only inches from where Farrell stood, the heavy metal plates installed into the sidewalls easily stopping the slugs. The Sergeant reached into the truck, took the walkie-talkie from the seat and yelled into the mouthpiece, “Now! Move it, now! Hit ‘em hard from the north!”
Four of Don’s rapidly advancing vehicles approached from the east, a familiar jeep trailing the three lead trucks. Men leaned over the cabs, their weapons discharging rounds as quickly as they could keep new magazines fed into the hungry mouths of the automatics. Farrell waited for the fastest truck to reach a point where he knew his aim would be deadly. He leaned his left shoulder into the frame of the pickup, just behind the cab, and raised the assault rifle to his shoulder. When ready, he emptied the first burst into the radiator of the pickup before raising the sights and splattering the driver’s head. With no one at the wheel, the truck veered to the left, ran off the pavement and into the burrow pit, first down, then up, taking flight as it topped the other side. The two men in the back were launched from the bed, landing badly, in grossly contorted piles of limbs and broken flesh. The truck continued on its way before colliding with a tree, ending its deadly run.
From the north, Farrell could hear his additional units opening up with their own firepower. The Sergeant could see that Don, in his jeep, had stopped well behind his advancing units. Choosing to watch from a distance, Farrell sent a message his way, walking a series of bursts to the jeeps doorstep. Taking the hint, Bullock lifted his radio and ordered his remaining units to retreat. The driver of the white pickup, with the mounted machine gun, mashed the brake pedal to the floor, then wheeled around and headed back in the direction from which it had come. They were fortunate, the shells reaching them bouncing off metal only, giving them a chance to fight another day. The boys from Bear River didn’t take kindly to having their friends shot at so, given the opportunity, they lined up the second truck with a driver, co-pilot and two men in the back, as it blasted past them, headed for the downed plane. The only one of the crew with military experience pulled the shoulder propelled rocket from its tube, hoisted it to his shoulder and took careful aim before launching the missile into the back end of the truck. The Sergeant had already been pumping lead into the pickup, trying to stop it, when he saw the puff of smoke from the rocket launcher. With no time to lose, he tossed his assault rifle into the back of the truck, followed it quickly by vaulting into the bed, and held on, awaiting the impending detonation, which did not disappoint the leader.
The explosion was horrific, sending blood, bone and tissue in a wide arc around the destroyed vehicle. The men in the back were all but vaporized, as those in the cab were cooked beyond recognition. The truck rolled a final few feet before coming to a stop in the middle of the road, not far from the downed aircraft. Dallas looked on intently; ready to engage the oncoming vehicle, if it made it any further.
Farrell climbed from the bed of the pickup, unharmed but with his ears ringing. He collected his weapon from the rear of the truck, looked down the road to confirm that the battle was over, then ran the 75 yards to his brother’s position and the broken-up plane.
“Rod! Allison!” he shouted, when he knew he was within earshot. “Everybody okay?”
“Farrell, over here!” He could hear Rod’s voice carrying above the sound of the burning truck.
As Farrell passed the jeep, a stunned Cory sat at the wheel, his eyes as big as pie plates, his mouth still agape following the recent events. Dallas could see the questions in Farrell’s eyes, so he reached down and squeezed Cory’s shoulder, before yelling at the Chief. “The explosion was a little more than Cory expected. I’m not sure if he crapped himself but he hasn’t said anything since the truck rolled to a stop. He’ll be fine. I’ll see to that. Clayton’s down at the plane with Rod; I think they got themselves a problem.”
“Cory!” Farrell hollered. “Cory, snap out of it. I need you to get your head in the fight, son!” Dallas reached down and quickly popped Cory across the face with an open hand.
“What the . . . That hurt, Dallas,” Cory cried, rubbing his cheek and showing some sign of understanding. “What was that for?”
“Cory, you with us?” Farrell asked.
“Of course I’m with you. Where else would I be?” speaking as if he’d been coherent the entire time.
“Whatever, get your jeep out beyond my truck and watch for any further movement from Bullock’s men.”
“Gotcha Chief, we’re on our way,” the young man said, before roaring the engine back to life and lurching the jeep forward. He would have tossed Dallas from the back if it hadn’t been for the harness.
The Security Chief ran the final few yards to where the Bear River people were gathered. The Cessna was still smoking but not burning, the wreckage a mess of bent metal and broken fiberglass. A tall man, whom he did not recognize, stood looking over the shoulders of Rod and Clayton, who were kneeling, looking at something in the grass ahead of them. Farrell walked the last few steps to garner a greater view of what was happening, when he saw a body stretched out in the brown, spring grass. Allison sat with her legs crossed, a man’s head cradled in her lap. She was carefully caressing his forehead and cheeks, which were a bloody mess with a large bulge evident above his brow and blood flowing from his nose, mouth and ears.
“Kim Jenkins, best bloody pilot I’ve ever seen,” Godfrey said sadly, using his sleeve to wipe the tears from his face.
“You must be Godfrey?” Farrell asked, extending his hand in friendship.
“Correct, and you are Farrell Jenson. Thank you. I wish Kim could have made it. The force of the crash threw him into the windshield. He lived long enough to ask me a couple of questions and left a dying wish,” the Englishman said, looking into Farrell’s eyes, determining if the Sergeant was a man he could trust.
“What did he say?”
“Silly bugger wanted to know if I was okay. Can you imagine? His head is practically cracked in two and he’s worried about me. Something about a captain taking care of his passengers before himself. He then wanted to know if our cargo made it.”
“And did it?” Farrell pressed forward, more than anxious to hear the answer.
“Not the entire lot. One case appears to be unscathed but I don’t know about the other. It took some direct hits, so it may be useless.”
“His dying request? You said something about a dying req
uest?” the Sergeant inquired.
“Quite right. It’s not what I would have expected but he was insistent that I pass this on to whomever deals with this sort of thing, which I believe would be you. Anyway, he said, ‘I want somebody to kill that fat bastard and dance on his grave!’ He was gasping for his last breaths at that point but it was pretty clear that’s what he wanted.” Godfrey said, his arms and hands now shaking at his sides.
“Well, come hell or high water, we’ll honor this fallen hero’s request. How ‘bout you? You look like you’ve been ridden hard and put up wet, but you okay?” Farrell asked.
“Well, I’m still on my feet but just so. I’d say I’m shaken, Farrell. Not just physically but Kim’s death was perhaps my fault. Something I’ll have to learn to live with. He was a fine man, a good man. Indeed his death has truly opened my eyes and I will forever be in his debt and yours.” Godfrey dropped to a knee, overcome with grief and closed his eyes against the reality that had finally overcome his shock.
“There’ll be time for that later. I know you’re hurting but we need to get these people back to safety. Saddle up folks! Let’s get things packed up and get outta here! Rod, see to it that Kim’s body is taken care of. We owe that man our futures.”
Chapter 19
In the days that followed the brief battle on I-15, the people of Bear River counted their blessings, bolstered their defenses and watched for Bullock’s revenge. Directly after a touching but limited funeral service, the corpse of Kim Jenkins was spirited away by a heavily armed team of Farrell’s finest. Taking his remains to a local funeral home they were able to cremate his body and return it in an urn, which they found among the stored items at the home. The funeral chapel was strangely untouched. It appeared that the thought of ransacking a place of the dead, among the dead, was even below the lowest form of humanity, or perhaps it was just that there was nothing of value to take. Allan Ray had led the team, convincing the Security Chief that he needed the experience, especially after being left behind in the rescue mission, only days before. Farrell had reminded the eager ‘hulk’ that he was a valuable part of the team, regardless of where he served but agreed; knowing Allan would need to get his hands bloody sooner or later. It was inevitable that anyone wanting to survive in a post-apocalyptic world, at least for a time, would have to battle and scrap until some level of decency could be restored.
With Kim’s remains resting safely on a shelf in the Sergeant’s room, the chiefs met in an effort to plan their future. The ‘miracle’ medication that Godfrey had managed to salvage, still sat among the other medical supplies in Mel’s office, securely locked and unused. Mel shook her head slowly from side-to-side, unsure of how she should respond to the barrage of questions thrown at her by both Farrell and Gary. “Listen, I’m as anxious as you are to try this stuff, but where do we start and what do we do if there are unexpected, unknown side effects?” she questioned, sitting back in her chair while running her hands through her long, black hair.
“Godfrey seems to think we’re being foolish. Wants everyone to get a dose right now. I can see your reservations but we need to begin somewhere. Mr. Jenkins gave his life getting this medication to us, it would be a shame not to honor his memory and treat these people,” Gary suggested, looking first at Mel and then back to Farrell.
“Mel, you’ve done wonders keeping us all alive and managing the diet to keep our systems functioning but speaking for me and Elva, we want to try this medication. We know our only hope of ever having a family lies in those crates you’ve got locked away. That’s really the long and short of it and I think most of the people here feel that way, except maybe for the ones who are a bit older. As long as we can continue providing them with a liver rich diet, they might be able to live out their years and do alright.”
“I appreciate your input, both of you. Personally, I will not be taking the medication, at least not yet. The last thing we need is to have me develop complications and leave you high and dry, with no medical help. I think we take a vote, decide who wants to be injected and then do it in weekly installments. We can draw numbers to see who goes first and so on. That way we can track the effects and stop them if needed. It might spare the final groups some pain, if we see there is a problem.”
“I like it,” Gary said enthusiastically. He looked at the other chief in the room, “Farrell, you?”
“I think it’s fair and will be accepted by the community. I believe Mel should be the one to address the issue in a town meeting, sooner, rather than later,” Farrell added.
“Okay, it’s settled. I’ll make an announcement over the intercom today and we’ll meet tomorrow morning in the auditorium. I know we’ve got a security issue at the moment, Farrell, but for 30 minutes let’s see if we can get by with a skeleton crew so most can be in attendance,” Gary suggested, before moving behind his desk to write a message that he could read to the community.
“Should be fine. I don’t need to be there and I’ll keep Elva with me. I’ll talk to a few of the boys and arrange some security. Whoever doesn’t show up to the meeting, assume they are on guard duty and have talked to me.”
“Perfect, tomorrow morning it is and I’ll have a system in place to start the delivery of the medication as early as noon tomorrow. Good luck gentlemen, I hope this goes as well as you would like,” the medical officer said, still showing a degree of skepticism in her voice.
“Farrell, a final thought. What should we expect from Bullock?” the Community Chief asked.
“He’s not going to stop. Plain and simple as that sounds, I believe that to be the truth. We have to assume that he knows, or at least thinks, we have the medication and he’s in the same boat we are. I’d offer him the balance of the product, once we’ve all been dosed but I don’t think that will appease him. He strikes me as the kind of man who’s used to getting his way. He’ll take the little spanking we gave him the other day as a personal insult and be back with more men and bigger guns,” Farrell indicated, before he put a smile on his face and assured the others with his next statement. “But, don’t you worry, we’ve been working on a few little surprises for our fat friend and he’s not going to like the next round of butt paddlin’ he gets.”
The sun’s effulgent rays slowly gave way to the darkness of night and the reflective properties of the moon. It had been another warm, spring-like day. Small buds were beginning to show, promising a newness of life and prospects of a productive harvest to the people of Bear River. Rod stood on the roof of the school, looking over the land stretched out before the compound. Allison was seated on a concrete lip that ran the circumference of the building, elevated above the roof’s flat surface by 18 inches of masonry. A mounted machine gun, taken from the back of their useable jeep, was nearby, surrounded by sandbags, with a belt of bright, brass colored ammunition hanging from the left side. Allan was leaning over the gun, a pair of binoculars in his hands, sweeping back and forth for signs of vehicles or lights moving in their direction. Nights were absolutely black, uncomfortably black, and had been since power was no longer supplied by a central source. Farrell had worked wonders with the school’s two large backup generators, keeping the school warm in the winter and lit year round. As long as gas stations and abandoned cars could supply gasoline, they’d be okay. The chiefs had agreed that once those resources dried up, they’d have to look at converting the system to wood or coal burning, but for now, gas was still a viable source of fuel.
Allison looked at her husband of only a few days and motioned for him to sit next to her on the edge of the roof, almost three stories above the concrete steps below. “Come on, you’re being silly. The view is wonderful from here, and that way you can keep me warm,” she said, wrapping her arms around her chest, “Brrrrrr.”
“I’m good, thanks,” Rod said, keeping his distance from the edge.
“Don’t you want to keep me warm?” she asked seductively.
“You know I do but I really don’t like being where I can see straigh
t down. It’s making me feel a little sick just having you sitting there. Been that way my whole life. I remember as a kid going to the circus with my folks and brothers and sisters, one of the worst experiences ever! Some woman getting pulled to the top of the arena by her hair while she juggled, high-wire crazy people working without nets, and some guy driving a motorcycle along a metal cable from the ground, all the way to the top of the tent. I had to keep looking at my feet to stop from throwing up. Yes Allison, as much as I’d like to slide right over there and wrap you up in my arms, and keep you warm, I think for your sake and my stomach’s, I better stay right here,” he said, motioning to the ground underneath his feet a few paces from the rim.
“Rod, you scared of heights?” Allan guessed, being able to overhear some of the conversation between the man and woman. “Farrell says if you want to overcome your fears, you’ve got to face ‘em. Before I hooked up with you good folks, I wasn’t comfortable with guns and really had no need for ‘em, but look at me now. Got this .30 caliber ready to use if I had to and . . . ” his thought trailed off as his voice began to crack and squeak.
“You okay, Allan?” Allison asked, looking at Rod and raising both hands as if to say, What’s up with him?
Rod took a couple of steps toward his large friend, noting under the dim illumination of the spring moon a couple of tears trickling down Allan’s face, collecting on his chin, preparing to drip to the ground. “What is it? What’s the matter?”
The Living Hunger Page 16
