The Living Hunger

by Dennis F. Larsen

  “Nice toss,” Clayton said.

  “I give it a solid 8.0, looked like your release was a little early,” Cory teased.

  Chapter 41

  Standing in front of the sorority house the three men holstered their pistols and casually held their rifles at their sides. The stress of the day’s hunt slowly faded from their faces as they inspected the broken chair in the middle of the street. Nothing was said further about the search, Clayton’s mishap or Sarge’s unique hammer toss, but the thought of Solomon was never very far from their minds. However, Cory did have a new interest that he could no longer keep from Farrell.

  “Hey Farrell, you know what day of the week it is?” Cory asked, as the three began their walk back to the security checkpoint they would need to pass through for entrance back into The Alamo.

  A reply did not immediately come back as Farrell thought about the question, not having a definitive answer. “Must be Friday or Saturday. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, nothing really. Just overheard some of the ladies talking about going to church this Sunday and I was curious how many days away that was,” came Cory’s reply.

  A loud scoff was heard coming from the opposite side of the road where Clayton had stopped to tie his bootlace. “Cory, tell Farrell why you’re so interested in church all of a sudden,” he yelled.

  “Shut up over there, Clayton. I was just curious is all.”

  “Clayton, what’s the deal with Cory?” the Sergeant asked.

  “Oh, he’s got his eye on one of The Ward’s girls,” Clayton said, resuming his walk down the street somewhat apart from the other two.

  “He has? Which one, Cory?” Farrell asked, genuinely interested in the boy’s new flame.

  Cory was silent, which prompted his buddy to reply on his behalf. “He’s sweet on the preacher’s daughter!”

  “Preacher’s daughter?” Farrell thought for a moment, and then it occurred to him who Clayton was talking about. “You mean the Bishop’s daughter? Jacob Freeman’s daughter? Isn’t she just 14?”

  “No, she’s almost 16!” Cory suddenly came to his own defense, throwing a rock across the street at Clayton, who ducked just in time, allowing the rock to sail through a large window of the nearby institute building. The heavy pane of glass imploded: shards clattering and further breaking as they slammed into the frame and the ground below. Clayton looked like someone walking on hot coals as he high-stepped it away from the breaking glass and ran for the safety of the road.

  “Nice work, Cory,” Clayton barked at his friend.

  “Man, if you two aren’t something,” Farrell said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Okay Cory, so she’s almost 16. Is that right?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I know she’s kinda young but have you seen what there is to choose from? She’s pretty cute and she thinks I’m funny. What more could I ask for!”

  “I’m sure the Bishop is pretty pleased,” Clayton interjected sarcastically.

  “He should be,” Farrell said, coming to Cory’s aid. “Any of the girls here should be happy to find good men like yourselves. I have to tell ya, and this is going to sound corny, but there’s nothing better than the love and support of a good woman. Elva’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I mean that.”

  A few minutes later the two search teams met over hot cider and donuts that the ladies had spent the afternoon preparing. The results of the day were correlated and plans for the next few days were laid out. The guard posts on campus would be maintained at double strength, while those on the outer limits of the city would continue at the norm, two men per shift, each spending a full eight hours before returning to the school for some rest and revitalization.

  C&C hit the sack about 6:00 p.m. knowing they would need some sleep before assuming their turn on an outer-perimeter post at midnight. Little did the duo know that a pair of dark eyes was anxiously awaiting their team’s arrival. He’d left his hiding place early to make sure he was ready for the guard’s exchange. His thirst for flesh had only been partially sated by the consumption of the gamey coyote. Tonight he anticipated something more sweet and rewarding. His plans played through his mind, sending his saliva glands into overdrive, causing him to suck the juices down, imagining that it was more thick, salty and red.

  Chapter 42

  Plunder, ravage and kill; the secret works of the repugnant. Since the fall of man and brother killing brother, evil has owned the night. Black and cold enveloped the northern security barrier as it did each night. A pair of high-intensity floods acted as a lighthouse, offering hope and direction to the wayward and lost. They also acted as a beacon for a lone assassin who would slaughter and eat.

  Solomon slept for a few hours in the back of a mattress store, fading in and out, waking long enough to assess the depth of the blackness outside, knowing that his hour was fast approaching. The scurrying of tiny nails, interspersed with the gnawing and grinding of pint-sized incisors, alerted the resting killer that he was not alone. A pair of grey field mice had discovered the bounty of crumbs inadvertently scattered on the floor as he’d eaten from an outdated box of crackers. The two tiny survivors watched cautiously, enjoying the easy meal, with their ears extended and whiskers flicking back and forth as they chewed the salty snack. Solomon watched the pair, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness for several minutes before removing the bayonet from its sheath. He then struck with almost superhuman speed, pinning one of the mice to the floor and killing it. He released the blade and watched as the mouse’s feet and tail twitched in its death throes before it finally ceased and lay still. Pulling the knife from the floor, the carcass still clinging to the blade, the killer sent the small varmint sailing across the room with a simple flick of his wrist. The event passed from his mind without so much as a second thought. A moment later a truck passed by with two men seated in the cab.

  The African took his time preparing for the feast; slowly removing his clothing and laying them across the end of the commandeered mattress. Over the past few days he’d found a house, which must have been home to a tall, slender man. The clothing fit Solomon perfectly, providing him with a showcase of shirts and slacks, but he preferred the dark running pants and matching tops. Standing naked but for a black pair of athletic shorts, the AK-47 held closely to his back by a crudely made sling he’d fashioned from two leather belts, Solomon was ready for the hunt. The feel of the cold steel against his shoulder blades, the roughness of the flooring on his bare feet and the night’s cool air made him feel alive, conjuring up thoughts and feelings of his home far away in Africa. Before he ventured into the street he lifted the blade from the mattress, wiped the bloody residue from the tip and ran his thumb down the edge, assuring himself that his tool of choice was up to the task at hand.

  To avoid detection, the sleek black man stayed to the side streets, moving from building to building as he quickly covered the few blocks that separated him from the outpost. Nearing the fortified bunker he heard a truck’s engine roar to life, then a single door closing before the sound of a shifting transmission faded away as the vehicle departed. Perfect, he thought, this be Solomon’s night. The predator hunted with greater confidence tonight than he had for some time. Unbeknownst to him, the sudden increase in liver had fortified his rhodopsin and improved his ‘rod’ driven night vision. The effect would be fleeting if he slowed the intake of Vitamin A but he noted the improvement and would capitalize on it. Staying in the shadows he leaned around the corner of a minimart, long since closed, but within range of the two men who now controlled the checkpoint. Solomon could overhear the audible sounds of speech mixed with laughter coming from the men, but only one was visible, who stood just outside the sandbags, a small MP5 submachine gun in his hands. The guard periodically turned to address the other, hidden within the squared confines of the secure bunker, bringing only his profile to Solomon’s view.

  Solomon had been here before, acting as his own recon unit, scouting the terrain and the possible avenues of attack.
He had done the same with each of the guard stations but had studied this one more carefully, noting that the Bear River people typically manned this post. Tonight he had high hopes that the thin blond and his taller, loud friend would be on duty. From behind, it appeared as if he had gauged it correctly and the pair was now within his reach. Slipping quietly around the corner of the mart, he entered the station and moved to the roof of the facility via an interior staircase that he had explored on a previous visit. The top of the building was completely flat with a narrow wall that ran the perimeter, a full two feet in height, providing space for signage and a broader appeal to the small store.

  Once there he removed the rifle from his back, creeping and moving like a lioness; stealth, and patience were key to a successful hunt. In the corner of the rooftop, closest to the would-be victims, Solomon knelt, his senses straining to take in what was happening below without having to raise his head above the roof’s rim. Positioned with the butt of the rifle pressed into the rooftop he supported his weight and waited. A full thirty minutes later he heard what he was waiting for: the crackle of a radio and the men reporting back to a command post. The sentry indicated that all was quiet and said nothing further.

  As the guard signed off, Solomon wrapped the homemade sling around his left arm and grasped the wooden forend of the rifle securely with the same hand. He raised the stock to his shoulder and leaned the rifle and his head above the roof’s wall. Below and 30 yards away he could make out the two men, both with hoodies pulled up, the one seated while the other walked to the edge of the lighted area and relieved himself. Momentarily he debated who should die first, deciding on the one in the protective square. Once he was down, the man in the open would be an easy target. The trained sniper rested the extended barrel of the Russian weapon on the lip of the wall and smoothly aligned the sights on the unsuspecting man. He breathed slowly, there was no rush. The shots fired would not be heard, and even if they were, it would take more time for help to respond than he needed to harvest the meat and livers.

  Heart, hit heart, he thought just before he pulled the trigger, launching a deadly ballistic the short 90 feet into the man’s chest, flipping him backwards and causing his feet to whip over his head. Solomon disengaged from the downed target and moved to engage the other, who had been much quicker than he had anticipated, and was running for the safety of their pickup. Solomon unleashed a deadly barrage of fire; some striking the pavement and sending up sparks while others seemed to vaporize without effect. Before the young man reached the truck, the hunter saw him somersault and roll behind the front end. I hit him? He questioned.

  A second later his question was answered in a torrent of smaller 9mm slugs fired at full automatic from the deadly MP5. Bullets ripped into the signage and decorative wall, coughing up miniature clouds of drywall and splinters. The obstructive impact slowed the slugs, many of them still passing through and dropping like flies onto the roof’s surface. Solomon rolled away from the less than adequate protection and made his way back down the stairs and into the mart’s sales area. He would need to flank the less experienced fighter while the element of surprise was still his. Stray light from the exterior floods helped to position him behind a counter where he could see to the truck, but his opponent would not be able to see him hiding in the darkness. He leaned his weight on the counter with his elbow supporting the gun and waited for the guard to lift his head just enough for him to get a clean shot. The shooting outside had stopped. He think he hit me, Solomon assured himself, his heart rate never rising more than 70 bpm while his breathing remained shallow and calm.

  The two waited for the other to make the next move. Solomon knew the young man was desperate to get to the radio and issue a wild call for help. He hoped fear would overcome the boy’s better judgment and propel him into the open. Minutes passed without movement from either side. Ultimately, the African’s experience won out and the guard raised his head above the truck’s hood. Crack! The heavy lead slug slammed through the plate glass of the store’s front, which deflected it slightly, causing it to ricochet near the sentry’s head and miss him entirely. As if choreographed, the two men burst forth from their cover, one running for the protection of the sandbags and the lifesaving radio, while the other chased, firing undeterred as his calloused feet crushed glass shards with each step. The guard fired wildly, the gun tipped over his shoulder, a thunderous spray of shells dancing in his wake. It was then that the Harvester knew it was over. He stopped, drew a bead on the fleeing man and drilled a single slug through his bouncing head. The guard dropped like a sack of hammers, silencing the battle but not slowing the attacker.

  Solomon hastily rushed to his victims, stopping only long enough to brush glass and blood from the bottom of both feet. He knelt at the sprinter’s side; anxious to see which of the pair had put up such a valiant fight. The man’s face was partially covered by the loose hooded top, which the assailant lifted with the barrel of his own weapon. The corpse was unrecognizable, as the bullet had disintegrated on impact at the back of the skull, pushing bone and lead out through his face and destroying the features. Before the carving began the hunter needed to know the identity of his prey. He bounded easily over the wall of the sandbagged enclosure to find the other guard looking up at him, his eyes open, but the light of life taken from them. Solomon cursed quietly under his breath, the heightened exhilaration of the hunt and kills somewhat diminished by the confirmation that neither man was C&C.

  Tossing his heavy weapon aside he brought forth the knife and went to work, stripping away the choicest cuts and wrapping them in the victim’s own clothing for transport. The livers he savored, eating one raw while he waited for the radio to crackle again, knowing that a non-response would move rescuers to action and open the door for him to take one more life before departing. Solomon was not a deep-thinker or intellectual on any level but when it came to life and death, he was no fool. His time in Cache Valley had run its course and Don would be missing him. He was anxious to report his findings and receive his reward from the fat man as well. For now, while the community would be in a panic, he would see what opportunities arose and leave one last parting shot.

  Chapter 43

  “Farrell!” The call came from just outside his converted bedroom, a sound of distress and fear in the man’s voice. “We’re getting no response from one of the outposts. Boyd thinks we’ve got two men down.” The Chief’s mind immediately shot to Cory and Clayton, knowing they were on guard duty at one of the outer checkpoints tonight.

  “C&C?” he yelled from the inside of his room as he frantically pulled his pants on and scrambled for his boots.

  “Nope, it’s the northern units. Cory and Clayton are on the south side tonight.”

  “Good,” the Sergeant said, feeling the pangs of guilt as soon as the words passed his lips. C&C may be safe but others were either dead or in extreme danger. He patted Elva before standing and pulling a shirt over his head. The excitement had woken his sweetheart and sent her stomach over the edge. He could still hear her retching, filling a small bucket she kept at the side of the bed as he ran from the bookstore dormitory.

  Outside on The Quad, Boyd, Clark and three others were preparing to depart for the outer post. “Farrell, we’ve got a situation we need to attend to. I need you to stay here and keep the compound secure. If we have men down we’ll have to comb the area. Stay close to the radio,” Boyd said.

  “Will do,” he called after them, as the men raced for the running vehicles, fire and ice filling their veins.

  Twenty minutes later an almost despondent Clark radioed Farrell with the news. “Two dead. Slaughtered and butchered, took his time . . . ” There was a long pause before he continued, “Sorry, I’ve never seen anything like it. I . . . ” Again, the words would not come and finally another voice took over the relay.

  “Farrell, Boyd here. This is one ruthless piece of work. I’ll give you the details when we’re back in the morning. We’re scouring the area for possi
ble signs and information but I suspect there will be none, although there’s enough blood that we should be able to follow him for a ways.”

  “Did they hurt Solomon? Is there any indication that maybe he’s wounded?” Farrell asked.

  “I don’t know. I don’t even know how I’d tell. You wouldn’t believe the amount of blood down here Farrell. I’ve seen some horrific things in my day, but this takes the cake. Pure evil, plain and simple, sent from the bowels of hell to deliver death and destruction.”

  “Boyd, I’m sorry for your losses. We’ll get this guy. Those boys’ deaths will not be in vain.”

  “Thanks Sarge, we’ll be in touch. Out.”

  Farrell continued to monitor the radio, only breaking away long enough to check each of the outposts surrounding the campus, as well as briefing the roving units on what had happened. In the early morning hours of the Sabbath, C&C reported back to The Alamo, anxious to talk with Farrell about the night’s events. They found him in the command post talking with Clark, a look of extreme fatigue and concern written across his countenance.

  Cory’s lack of patience spurred his mouth into action, “Sarge, who got hit? Did they get Solomon? How bad is it?”

  Farrell shot a glare at the young man, stopping his rant cold, as the Security Chief raised a single finger as if to say, ‘in one minute!’ When he had completed the radio update he addressed his friends, filling them in on the deaths and the circumstances. The boys were overcome by yet another setback and more tragedy.

  “What are we going to do?” Cory asked.

  “We’re going to catch and kill this scumbag and get on with our lives,” Farrell said, shaking his head in disbelief that such a diabolical monster had followed their footsteps.