The Living Hunger

by Dennis F. Larsen

  “Elva’s not going to like it,” Mel warned the stubborn leader.

  “I know but I think it’s for the best. I’ll step back and talk with her and Gary, and see how Rod is doing before I drive up. Do me a favor and just walk down the line and let everyone know what I’m doing. Assure them that everything is okay. If you see me go down, I don’t want anybody playing hero. Turn this group around and get back over the mountain and head north into Idaho. This bunch can’t take another armed conflict, not tonight.”

  “Will do, but I’m going to have a time holding these boys back if they see you’re in trouble. As you’ve already seen tonight, some of them have a mind of their own.”

  “Yeah, do your best and Gary can help out too. I’ll give him the same instructions,” Farrell said, as he slid from the front seat and walked the short distance to the next vehicle where Elva and the others were waiting. “How’s he doing?” he said, pointing to his brother lying in the back.

  “About as good as can be expected. I think he’s running a fever, keeps going in and out of consciousness, talking about seeing members of your family. I’m sure it’s just the fever talking,” Elva replied, her eyes red from lack of sleep, and a furrow knit across her youthful brow.

  “You’re probably right. Mel’s pretty confident that he’ll make it, as long as we can find some decent shelter before an infection sets in. Up ahead’s a guard station, I’m going to see what kind of a reception we’ll have,” he said, rather matter-of-factly.

  “Alone?” Elva asked.

  “Sure, there’s no sense putting anybody else in harm’s way. We pull up in force and they might get itchy trigger fingers. I’ll just let them know our situation and I’m sure they’ll understand.”

  “Sounds good, Farrell,” Gary chimed in. Farrell gave Gary the same instructions he’d given Mel a short time before and left the vehicle, but not without leaning in through the open window to kiss his wife and shake Gary’s hand. Allison offered a wave from Rod’s side and wished her brother-in-law well. Each of the occupants pleaded inwardly that the Cache Valley people would welcome them without hostilities.

  The three-minute drive to the armed entry point was a lonely one. The big man’s thoughts were focused so entirely on getting his people to safety that his own security was perhaps in jeopardy. The assault rifle, his constant companion as of late, rested on the seat next to him, a full drum of ammo fitted snugly into the weapon’s underbelly. Farrell looked down at the well-used gun and reached out to touch the plastic and steel, bringing a sense of calm to the exhausted leader. With half of the distance closed between his truck and the post, Farrell could see the two men scrambling in preparation of his arrival. The sleeper now knelt behind the protective barrier, his scoped rifle aimed at the advancing truck, while the other finished his hot drink and walked a few feet beyond the station, his body in an offensive posture, assault rifle at the ready.

  As Farrell coasted the heavy vehicle to a stop, the lead guard held out his left hand, palm facing the unknown truck in the universal sign for ‘halt’. The man’s right hand remained on the trigger, his left arm crossing under the rifle, supporting its weight while he issued the sign. “That’s far enough! Hold it right there!” he shouted, bringing his left hand back to grasp the rifle’s forend. “What’s your business?”

  The Sergeant extended both of his hands from the driver’s window in a sign of good faith, showing that he was unarmed, before he opened the door and exited the sheltered cab. A wave of nausea swept over the Chief as he hesitated, having second thoughts about leaving his own weapon sitting on the seat. He slowly paced toward the two men, hands slightly elevated and a smile on his face.

  “Yo, buddy, lose the pistol!” the guard yelled from behind the barricade, as he monitored the stranger’s movements through the scope sitting atop his high-powered rifle. Farrell stopped and with two fingers slowly withdrew his sidearm from its holster, retreated a few steps and placed the weapon on the truck’s hood.

  “Good?” he asked, as he turned and resumed his walk toward the guards. Farrell watched the two men carefully, paying special attention to their eyes and fingers. The sentry standing in the road looked to be about 35, however, the guard’s pale, freckled complexion and blond hair, sticking out from underneath a tightly fit ball cap, gave him a younger appearance. A mustache of multiple blond hues warmed his upper lip and wrapped the corners, extending down to his chin in a Fu Manchu style cut. Despite the distance and harsh lighting, Farrell had no trouble monitoring his eyes. They were piercing, an aquamarine, the color of a glacier lake amidst the springtime run-off. The two met in the bright mixture of light created from the truck’s headlights and the compound’s overhead floods. Six feet separated the men. The guard was somewhat intimidated by the newcomer’s size but was confident in his ability to control the situation, should it escalate into violence.

  “Who are ya and what you doing out at this time of night?” Clark asked, lowering his weapon a bit while keeping his finger on the trigger and barrel leveled at the bigger man.

  “Farrell, Farrell Jenson from over in Garland. Wondering if you’ve got a warm bed and a hot meal for somebody that’s had a day from hell.”

  “How’s that?” Kirk called from behind the sandbags. ”Watch him Clark. Should I call it in?”

  “Hold up there, Kirk, let’s find out what we can do for him before we go getting everybody excited. So Farrell, what brought you over the mountain this time of night?”

  “Had a little trouble with a guy by the name of Don Bullock. You know him?” the Chief asked, looking carefully into the man’s face for any sign of deceit.

  “Oh yeah, controls the Ogden area. He’s pushed a number of people our way but we don’t see many coming from your direction. Where you been holding out?” Clark asked.

  “Over in Bear River at the high school, been there a few years ‘til this morning, when a bit of a disagreement forced us to look for greener pastures.”

  “Us? Who’s us?” the guard said, lowering the barrel of his assault rifle to a less threatening angle.

  “Let’s just say that I’m not alone.”

  “Clark, I’m calling it in!” Kirk yelled out, from the safety of his position.

  “No, you’re not. Just hold your horses,” Clark sternly warned his friend before returning to engage the spokesman. “Okay, let’s say that you’re not alone and that somewhere behind you is a following of er . . . however many. So what can we do for you, other than a warm bed and some food?”

  Farrell sensed that Clark was a compassionate character and would understand if he just laid out the truth and let the chips fall where they may. “Well, I’ll tell you Clark, my wife is a mile down the road scared to death that she’ll never see me again. My brother’s shot up and running a fever and I’ve got about 12 friends that I need to bury. I got another 30 or so who are bone-tired and could use a place to rest. We were hoping that place might be here in Cache Valley, at least for a time.”

  “Holy,” Clark said, stretching the word out in an expression of his surprise. “It does sound like you’ve had quite a day.”

  “I’ve had better but not many worse, that’s for sure,” Farrell replied, noticing the guard’s posture again relaxing a bit.

  “You got more wounded than your brother?”

  “A few, but he’s the worst. Lost one on the way over but . . . ” the Chief stopped, reigning in his emotions before he continued. “Yeah, there’s a few of us that are hurt.”

  “Kirk, get Boyd out of bed and let him know we got a group of about 30 that I’m letting through. Have him send a runner down to lead them back to the base.”

  “You sure about this? Maybe we better have Boyd come on down and check it out before we let them through,” Kirk suggested apprehensively, still holding his rifle on the Chief.

  “They’ve got wounded and women and need our help. Just do what I tell you,” Clark confirmed, speaking firmly but not in a condescending way to his cousin. C
lark stepped forward, slinging his weapon behind his back, a leather strap holding it in place. “Farrell, sorry for your losses, if there’s anything we can do to help, we will,” he said, reaching forth a strong, calloused hand in a sign of acceptance and welcome.

  “I can’t tell you how much this means to us. I’d heard good things about you people and I’m relieved to say that it appears they were all true,” the Chief said, clutching and shaking Clark’s hand, an instant bond created between the two men.

  “Bear River Community? We’ve heard tales of a hardheaded, no-nonsense, war vet that runs that group. Goes by Sarge or somethin’ thereabouts. You know him?” Clark asked, cocking his head to one side as the men’s hands disengaged.

  “I’m afraid that’s probably me they’re referring to.”

  “I thought as much,” Clark said, smiling, a sense of relief written across his face as he winked one of his light blue eyes at the Chief.

  “Hardheaded? Someone said I was hardheaded? Sounds like a crock to me,” Farrell said wryly.

  “Alright Sarge, get back to your group and lead ‘em on up here. I’m gonna have to look in each of the vehicles. Hope you understand,” Clark issued, making it clear that it was not a request.

  “I’d do the same myself.” Farrell sidestepped to retrieve his pistol and turned back once he had it holstered. “What do you call yourselves?” he asked, before getting back into his truck.

  Clark, who was still paying very close attention to the Bear River Chief, replied, “The Ward. And this here,” he said, sweeping his arms around to indicate the city in general, “is Cache Valley and we call our compound ‘The Alamo’.” He pointed to a sign above the trailer, where the letters UPS were crossed out and ‘The Alamo - West’ had been boldly painted in its place.

  “The Ward? All Mormons?” Farrell asked.

  “Not hardly, I’d say about 50 percent but we’re finding more and more Mormons working their way here as they’re rejected in other communities. You got a problem with that?”

  “Not in the least, most of my family’s been Mormon for many years. I’m not ‘converted’ myself but a bunch of people in our group are devout. They’ll be glad to know there are others here who believe as they do. They’re good people, hard workers, but I’ve had to do some serious talkin’ to get a number of them to defend themselves. They’re a little naive when it comes to the scum this war has produced.”

  “Oh, believe me Farrell, we don’t have that problem here. This will not be another Hahn’s Mill, which is why we named it The Alamo. We’re here to defend our families and our way of life to the last man, if necessary, and nobody will take that from us.” The determination and conviction in the man’s voice assured the battle-hardened vet that they’d come to the right place.

  “I can tell I’m going to like you, Clark,” the big man said, as he hopped behind the wheel of his truck, made a quick three-point-turn and sped back up the road, anxious to relay the good news to his wife and the company.

  Chapter 34

  From within the upper level of a deserted sorority and at a safe distance, a single pair of dark eyes watched the activity on the campus. The intruder longed for an optical aid to give him the edge he needed but would have to do without. His journey over the mountain and into the once bustling city had gone unobserved and undetected. Finding a weapon had been easier than he had anticipated. Going house to house in search of food and the tools of his trade was not a burden for the assassin, but rather, part of the game that he loved to play. He’d arrived in Cache Valley shortly after the Bear River people. Transportation was never an issue for the crafty foreigner who had been stealing cars and acting the part of a thug most of his life. The good people of the valley had made it easy for him to survive and heal from his superficial wounds, sustained at the receiving end of one of Farrell’s mortars. He was delighted to find well stored and packed food lining the basements of numerous homes, the fallback plan for many, had they survived the fallout of war. His mind went to the words of his former boss, singing praises to the faithful Mormons, who had listened to their hierarchy and left a bounty of goods for the rotund leader and his followers.

  Varmint guns were plentiful and often unlocked, leaning up in the corners of closets or under beds, but the heavier firepower he required was a bit trickier, the owners often using safes to secure the more dangerous weapons and ammunition. He cussed his weakness in leaving the large sniper rifle lying in a ditch on the other side of the mountain, but at the time, he’d had no choice. The rage, keeping him alive and pushing him for revenge, had plotted his course, sending him away from the day’s fight, as some time of rest and recuperation were needed before he could act on his impulses.

  Solomon had finally settled on a number of useful items. He’d arrived with a large bayonet dangling from his belt, a razor-sharp edged blade with a serrated component near the hilt for ripping and sawing through bone or cartilage, as needed. The overall length of the knife extended a full foot down his right thigh. Attached to his belt, with the grip facing forward, was a short-barreled .357 magnum and leather holster he’d scrounged from a woman’s dresser. The pistol had been unable to save her from the effects of the toxic air, which eventually killed her and her children, the corpses now mummified, neatly tucked into their beds. The woman must have been the last to go, as a letter to her family was on the pillow next to her remains, asking for forgiveness and mercy in her final moments. His pant pockets bulged with the bulky addition of three speed-loaders intended for the powerful handgun. Resting across his lap, fully loaded and lubricated, was the crown jewel of his cautious search. A wooden stocked Kalashnikov AK-47 smelled of fresh gun oil, which he had meticulously applied to the weapon, preparing it for the job it had been created to perform.

  The assassin looked relaxed and fresh, coming off a hellacious journey, suffering the effects of a concussion and having to practically crawl through swamp water and filth to avoid the guard stations, strategically located around the city. At times the view through the upper window was almost funny, the unsuspecting little workers going about their day’s chores, popping in and out of buildings, carrying goods from one location to another, their lives granted, for now, by a lone killer with only one thought on his mind. Thus far, into his day’s surveillance, he’d turned up empty handed. He’d not recognized any of the individuals milling about but he’d really only seen a few of the Bear River people who had escaped the devastating effects of his one-man assault. But there was no doubt in his mind that Farrell was here. The carnage that he’d come across at the gas station confirmed his suspicions, as had the gunner just before he’d slit his throat and taken his liver.

  Hour after hour, he watched what appeared to be the main building of the campus, with no sign of the big Sergeant. The warm coke and peanuts had sustained him for the day but he longed for something more satisfying, something wet and warm. As the sun cast its final rays on the university’s campus, Solomon slid from his hiding place, his dark skin and clothing hiding the Harvester in search of prey.

  Chapter 35

  Sunny, yellow walls helped to heighten the already joyful mood in the infirmary’s room where family and friends surrounded Rod, who was sitting up and speaking of the past week’s events. Mel stood at the head of the wheeled bed, her hand resting lightly on Rod’s shoulder while Farrell and Allison sat on the opposite side, their hands also holding the recuperating man, not wanting to let him go. The Ward’s resident surgeon leaned casually over the metal footboard, tapping a pen lightly on a thin pad of papers with Rod’s name at the top. He was somewhat inwardly concerned but didn’t let that affect the broad smile he was sharing with the rest of the injured man’s guests.

  “It’s quite remarkable what you were able to do with his injuries, considering the circumstances that you found yourself in,” the surgeon said, addressing his remarks to Mel, who grinned and nodded her appreciation. “He certainly wouldn’t be doing this well, or be here at all, if it hadn’t been fo
r the quick work you made of removing those slugs. I’ve seen men die with less serious wounds. You’re fortunate, my friend, that you’re still among the land of the living,” he said to Rod, bouncing the pen off his patient’s big toe lying just under the thin blanket.

  At the beginning of the war, Dr. Remy Reynolds had been an ophthalmological intern at the local hospital, specializing in cataract surgery but he’d been forced to quickly expand his area of specialty to include trauma and general surgery. Now some five or six years later, he could not remember the last time he’d performed a simple cataract extraction and lens implantation. The native Albertan had graduated somewhere in the middle of his class from The University of Alberta in Edmonton. Remy, as everyone called him, had opted to do his residency in Utah where they were experimenting with new implant techniques in his area of expertise. Shortly after the war began, he had tried to leave the USA for home but had been denied access, due to a string of red tape that he could no longer even remember. So he made the University his home and hunkered down with friends and colleagues to ride out the worldwide conflict and resulting calamity.

  Very few had survived with no rhyme or reason as to why some did and some did not. The elderly and generally ill were triaged among those unlikely to make it, receiving limited care, while the majority of resources were devoted to the war injured and those with a reasonable chance of living. Remy had watched the hospital staff succumb to the toxic atmosphere and dangerous germs that raced through the clinic unabated and uncontrolled. Supplies dwindled and eventually ran out causing those who had survived to look after themselves and loved ones, but give up caring for the unknown and dying. In those days, Dr Reynolds had been taken in by a group who had secured a portion of the university’s campus, setting up construction fencing to border off what they declared to be their own. Razor wire had been added to the top of the fencing, taken from a local manufacturer who sold to prisons. The addition of the skilled surgeon had been a boon for the community. He had grown, likely due to his easy-going nature, to be one of the most popular and recognized members of The Ward.