The Living Hunger

by Dennis F. Larsen

  “Don, nobody is still fighting! Where are you? Can’t you see or hear that no shots are being fired?” Jimmy asked incredulously.

  “Well, we had to get away from the mortars so we retreated a ways. You got a problem with that?” he whined into the mic, his blood pressure rising with his voice.

  “No, just thought you’d be closer. So what do you want us to do?”

  “Alright! Hold your position at the Subway and we’ll come to you. We’ll try to round up any stragglers and regroup once we’re together. We finish this today. I’ve radioed for another 30 people to leave their defensive positions and get up here A-SAP. I don’t think we need anybody guarding the beans today but we sure need some help if we’re gonna get Farrell and the medication.”

  “Agreed. We’ll wait for you and look around for other survivors. Our best chance of breaking their defenses will be from the south. Now that they’ve blown the barrels there won’t be anything to stop us.”

  * * *

  Don stood before his second wave of attackers, a mix of 30 men and women, many of them covered with prison tattoos. All were Harvesters, a dramatic expansion in number since the death of Ethan at Solomon’s hand. Over time many had been willing to accept the heinous act as just ‘survival of the fittest’. Bullock whipped them into a frenzy of bloodlust, describing the unfair way the Bear River people had treated them, stealing the much-needed antidote that Don had arranged to be flown to them, specifically for their use. In his own words, he described the lengths that he’d gone to, offering to share the injections so that all could be healed. He talked a good story and the group ate it up because they wanted to believe it. It’s always easier to rape, kill and pillage when there is some degree of justification. The big man continued his remarks by stressing the callous way their friends and loved ones had been savagely murdered just minutes before. The Bear River people were not fighting fair, and he had tried to keep the brutalization to a minimum, after all he was a compassionate man, just trying to get along with everyone.

  “Mark my words,” he concluded. “We will not stand for the evil works of this Farrell Jenson and his minions. Take every woman unharmed, at least until we get them back to our compound.” The men cheered in unison, raising their rifles into the air, some firing short bursts in support of their fat leader. “Every dead body we harvest. Cut their livers and pack ‘em up, we will eat well tonight.” The group again whooped it up, shooting wildly into the air and shouting their support. “And we will leave no man alive, ‘cept for that lowlife Sergeant. Bring me that peckerwood so Solomon and me can deal with that arrogant pretty boy. Check your ammo and knives, we move out in five!”

  A mile and a half from Don’s position a thin, slightly disoriented man walked along the side of a deserted road, weaving a pattern of footprints into the dust and mud. His large caliber instrument of death lay in the dirt a hundred yards behind him, the weight of the weapon not worth the effort to carry it another inch. A trail of blood oozed from his head, running down his neck, over his shoulder and finally dripping from the fingertips of his left hand. Surviving the collapse of the grain elevator had been a phenomenal feat. His leap from the falling tower had been timed perfectly. Had it not been for his landing somersault, crashing him into the corner of a building, he would have gotten away, unhurt. Double vision was a problem, but even now was better than it had been minutes after the accident. However, his thought process was clear, clear enough to see what had to be done.

  Find . . . Kill . . . Eat . . . Survive! Don make Solomon big man, many woman.

  Chapter 27

  The earth-shaking explosion had distracted Allison long enough that she looked up to see a rising plume of smoke and debris blasted into the air as the ground rumbled under her knees. The events to the south of the school only held her attention for a second or two, as she frantically tried to determine where Rod was hurt and if there was anything she could do to prevent his death. His breathing was shallow but he remained conscious, fully aware of what was happening around him.

  “Allan?” he whispered.

  “I know, Rod,” she said, turning her head to see the body of her friend lying on his side in the mud. A pool of blood was forming at his torso, staining his BYU sweatshirt and saturating the material, before it ran to the ground. She strained to see any sign of life but none was readily apparent, no rise and fall of his chest, no movement, and his eyes were closed. “Allan! Allan!” she called out. There was no response from the big man and she assumed him dead. Allison turned back to her husband, who read the unmistakable answer written into her grieving face. A sorrow more painful than his mortal wounds tore at his chest, pushing him beyond despair as he battled for the will to live.

  “He . . . he . . . ” Rod gasped for breath to speak the words that he wanted so desperately to say, but could not.

  “Quiet. Save your energy,” Allison spoke calmly as she continued to assess Rod’s status. Without completely stripping him down it appeared that he’d been hit twice. Once in the upper right chest, though no exit wound was visible. The other bullet wound was slightly lower; causing a morbid sucking sound each time he took a breath. Foamy, orange colored blood seeped from the hole in his abdomen, which she covered with her hand, slowing the loss of precious blood. She knelt over him, both hands pressed firmly to his chest, wondering what she should do. Are we the only survivors? Why had no one come to help? These and more questions shot through her mind as she weighed her options.

  “Allison,” Rod managed to whisper. “I’m good.” The words slipped from his lips, the energy spent self-evident. “Allan. Check Allan,” he pushed the words out, while trying to crank his head enough so that he could see his downed friend.

  Allison knew her husband’s determination. He would not relax until she’d made sure that Allan had been looked after. She lifted Rod’s hands and placed them over his wounds, pressing down to demonstrate what she wanted him to do. He complied as best he could but it was a feeble attempt, the strength slowly fading from his limbs as the blood leaked from his penetrated flesh. Allison crawled quickly through the mud and blood to reach Allan, bringing her face close to his, attempting to hear or feel any respiration coming from his nose. There was none detectable. As the realization of the past hour’s events caught up to the strong-willed woman, Allan’s apparent death, and the possible loss of her husband sank in. An unending river of tears flowed from her eyes and down onto her friend’s face but she carried on, intent in her quest to find a hint of life. She pressed her fingers into the thickness of his neck, now wet with her tears, but could feel no pulse, no miracle of hope, and no need to continue the search while her very-much-alive companion lay dying nearby.

  Pulling herself together and wiping at her face, she scurried back to Rod’s side and replaced his hands with her own. Their eyes met, the slow but meaningful shake of her head spoke all that needed to be conveyed. Rod grasped her wrist wanting so much to speak and share the feelings of his heart but it would not be. His eyes shut as he released the hold on his wife’s limb, the loss of blood too much as his arms slid aside, dropping with a wet slap against the cold, gore-saturated sod.

  * * *

  “Farrell, we’ve done it!” Gary screamed from his position on top of the school. He’d run the four coordinates of the map, looking for any sign of Bullock or his men and had come up empty. “What’s the plan from here?”

  The Sergeant stopped the truck in front of the school long enough to catch his breath and take stock of their current situation. “They’re not done!”

  “What do you mean, they’re not done? We just killed off most of his men and the few that survived didn’t look like they were interested in fighting anymore,” Gary said.

  “They won’t stop, not now. Did Rod get back to the rally point?” Farrell asked.

  “Not sure. Hasn’t been any word from him since Allan ran out there. Rod?” Gary called as he ran to the west side of the school’s roof. When there was no reply he feared the w
orst and his assumption was validated when he looked to see his many friends among those scattered on the battlefield. “Farrell, we’ve got a problem. I can’t see well enough to be sure but looks like we’ve got several people down, including your brother.”

  “No, please no,” he cried, engaging the transmission and gunning the engine, bringing the vehicle around in a squeal of tires and burning rubber. They reached the scene of the heroic battle within seconds, the chiefs running from the cab, calling out to Allison and the others in their haste. Farrell slid to the ground, coming to rest next to his fallen brother. “He alive?”

  “Yes, but barely. I don’t know what to do for him,” Allison broke down, a series of sobs coming from deep within her chest.

  Mel moved quickly from man to man, finding none alive, most having expired from multiple gunshot wounds, before arriving at Allan’s hulking frame stretched out on the ground. With effort, she pushed him onto his back, first feeling for a pulse before she pulled the blood-soaked sweatshirt up to better examine his injuries. The medic pressed her ear to his chest, above his heart. She listened intently, a puzzled look crossing her face after a few seconds. The Major bolted upright and stretched her neck to bring her face in alignment with Allan’s before placing a thumb on his upper right lid, pulling it upward and exposing the globe to the overhead sun. The blue of his iris immediately constricted, shrinking the pupil size and confirming Mel’s diagnosis that the big farm boy was still alive.

  She ripped the bag from her back and went to work on the oversized behemoth, cleaning and sanitizing the wounds before applying some clean dressings to his large chest. “Farrell, how’s Rod?” she yelled, from where she knelt in the mud.

  “He’s alive but that’s about it,” he responded.

  “Allison, here,” she said, tossing a roll of bandages and a bottle of alcohol the short distance between the two, turning her attention back to Allan.

  Farrell tore Rod’s shirt open, exposing the wounds, giving Allison the access she needed to apply the alcohol and bandages. A few seconds later, Mel was at their side measuring Rod’s vitals and injecting him with morphine. “Allan’s alive but I don’t think he’s going to make it. He’s taken three direct hits to his chest but he’s got a thick wall of muscle there that slowed the rounds. Maybe enough that his organs are untouched. His heartbeat is weak but steady. For him to live, I’ll have to try and remove the slugs. Don’t think he’ll survive the ‘bug-out, but we don’t have any choice. Rod’s in a little better shape,” she said, pointing to his wounds. “He’s been hit with a much smaller caliber weapon. The one here,” she said, indicating the shot to his upper chest, “hasn’t penetrated into the thoracic cavity, but the lower one has punctured his lung. Ballistic is probably imbedded there. Won’t kill him but we’ll have to get it out as soon as we have a safe place to do so.”

  “Great,” Farrell and Allison said, speaking almost in stereo.

  “Stay with him Allison. He’ll make it, God willing,” the medic expressed with conviction. “Farrell, do you think we can get Allan into the truck?”

  The Security Chief called for the man sitting in the back of the truck’s bed to join them. He responded with a quizzical look, tapping both of his ears, alerting the others to his immediate hearing loss. “Oh great, one more thing,” Farrell said, motioning for the man to join them. The three were able to slide Allan across the field to the back of the pickup, where they boosted his huge frame onto the tailgate, then dragged him fully into the bed. A small gasp for breath escaped his lips when they finally laid him to rest. “Come on, let’s get Rod and get out of here before we have Bullock show up and ruin our day,” the Sergeant said sarcastically. Rod was moved more readily into the pickup with Allison’s help. She sat with his head jostling in her lap as they traveled the short distance to the gym and shop area.

  “Gary, we’re on our way back to the shop area. Where do we stand?”

  “People are reluctant to leave, Farrell. Do you and Mel think we should evacuate? Bullock’s maybe had his fill,” Gary cringed, knowing what he’d said was a long shot.

  “Bullock won’t settle for just letting us return to our uninterrupted, happy little existence. Not after this. Not after we’ve handed him such a miserable defeat.” Farrell looked at Mel while he considered their options. “He’ll be back with more men and a renewed appetite for our blood.”

  “But when? What should we do?” Gary said, the triumphant lilt to his voice now gone.

  “Could be ten minutes, an hour, a day. Who knows? But we can’t be here. Mel, what are your thoughts?” the Chief asked, looking at the medical officer seated to his right.

  “I think you’re right. He won’t sit by and let us survive. Not now that we have the medication and he knows it,” she concurred.

  There were a brief few seconds when none of the counseling chiefs spoke. Each was lost in their own ideas and thoughts, considering the needs of the community and the plans that would need to be executed.

  “Why can’t we just meet with him and give him the remainder of the medication? Mel you could hurriedly give injections to everyone that wants one and give the rest of the supply to Bullock. That should appease him, don’t you think?” Gary suggested, knowing the idea would fall on deaf ears.

  “Don’t think it will matter, Gary,” Mel said, noting that Farrell was nodding his head in agreement with her.

  “Gary, I don’t think we have a choice. I think we need to issue the evacuation order and I think we need to do it now,” Farrell said, understanding the pain and anguish that it would cause among the day’s survivors. It would not be easy; having to pack up what few belongings they could muster and depart from their difficult but comfortable surroundings.

  “Do it Gary. We don’t have a choice. We’ve practiced for just such an event and everyone knows what to do. Farrell and I will get around to the other three security posts and pick up the wounded,” Mel spoke with the assurance the other leaders needed to hear, helping all three to be of one mind in their decision to leave Bear River for sites unknown.

  “Then it’s decided. We’ll congregate at the shop area and convoy out as soon as everyone is there,” Farrell said.

  “Farrell, Mel, what do we do about our dead?” Gary asked.

  “We could load them up and bury them, once we get someplace safe but that will slow us down,” Mel suggested, drawing a look of concern from Farrell.

  “Clayton with you, Gary?” the Security Chief asked.

  “Yes. What do you want him to do?”

  “Have him hustle down to the motor pool and get the big diesel they’ve been working on. That should hold all the dead. He can take a couple to help him and load up the bodies, so we don’t have to leave any behind. Have him start with the north end and pick up Godfrey and Cory,” Farrell directed.

  “Will do.”

  The chief’s converged on the congregational area where a short time later Clayton and two others, who were ferrying the dead, arrived along with Cory and Godfrey. The Englishman slid from the passenger side of the diesel and pulled Cory from the middle of the bench seat. The young man clung to his side, pressing a blood soaked t-shirt to the punctures found there.

  “What happened to him?” Mel asked, looking at Farrell.

  “Oh, the knucklehead thinks he’s a major leaguer, caught a grenade and slug at the same time. Got rid of the grenade though, saved Godfrey and me in the process. Kid’s got balls. That’s for sure. You’ll need to look at the wound, looks to be through and through with no slug. Small caliber and no vitals so I think he’ll be okay. See if you can get him cleaned up and bandaged before we head out. I’ll need him and Clayton to be the caboose of this little train.”

  “You think we’ve got time for me to get that slug out of your brother’s lung?” she asked.

  “I wish we did but I’d hate to risk it. Think he’ll survive a couple of hours if we don’t?”

  “He seems stable but that can change pretty quickly. It’s yo
ur call. I can stay here with him and Allison and see what we can do, then follow you after we’re done,” she stated, giving the Sergeant another option.

  “No, I can’t have that hanging over my head if Bullock shows up and finds the three of you. Keep him sedated and as stable as you can, same with Allan, and we’ll just have to find a place to hide out for a few hours where you can work your magic.”

  People began spilling from the doors of the school, carrying the few possessions they valued most. Two vans, previously stocked with provisions, blankets, medications and everything else the little community could think of were idling and ready to pull out. The battle for Bear River had been costly: 11 dead and several wounded. The home they’d created for themselves was partially destroyed, their hours of toil now for naught. An evil, carnal character had pulled the proverbial rug out from underneath the little group, sending them packing for greener pastures.

  Mel rode in the back of Farrell’s truck, along with Allison, caring for the wounded warriors. A mattress had been relocated from the school to provide a degree of comfort but there was little else that could be done. The medic had hurriedly boxed up most of her accumulated medical supplies, books and all else that could be thrown into boxes in a matter of minutes. Clayton had helped haul the contents to a waiting vehicle, Mrs. Allen and Len assisting, as they were able. Most moved calmly, keeping panic to a minimum but the ‘run for your life’ fear could be seen in everyone’s eyes. Thirty minutes after Gary had called for the evacuation, the convoy was buttoned down and ready to roll. Farrell led the nine vehicles as they pulled away from the compound and their home. Elva sat at his side, the Chinese assault rifle standing up between her feet and knees, the saddle bags liberated from the old barn on the seat next to her, drums of ammo extending from the open flaps. A sense of dread spread throughout the convoy. The unknown that stretched before them and thoughts of a scary and unpredictable place that may have little to offer but death, brought tears to the weak and resolve to the strong.