The Living Hunger

by Dennis F. Larsen

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “So I was standing there, looking over this field, and I could see two men walking toward me. In my head, I was thinking they looked like Dad and Shirt, but my mind kept telling me they were likely dead but I was sure I was still alive. Does that make any sense?”

  “Sure, I guess so.”

  “Anyway, I felt this need to walk out and meet them. I could feel the dirt clods breaking under my feet and I could smell the plants as my legs moved through the leaves. Weird! As I’m telling you this, I can smell it again. It was so real. The closer I got to them, the more I was sure it was Dad and Shirt, so I started to run and I met them in the middle of this amazing field. Dad looked the way he did when we were little boys, strong and full of vigor. Shirt looked just the way he did when he went off to war. You know the way his hair did that funny little flip in front? It was just the same.”

  “What did they say?” Farrell asked, getting drawn into the story.

  “We hugged, not wanting to end the embrace. It was like I could actually feel their arms around me. Anyway, the whole time we were together, I somehow knew they were dead and I was not. Dad said that Mom was fine and happy, taking care of the rest of the family, so she couldn’t make it. Sounds like Mom, huh?”

  “Yes it does.”

  “Shirt didn’t say much, other than he was anxious for me to tell you to keep your head down and stay out of trouble.” Farrell smiled at the remark, thinking of his older brother and the special bond they shared. A lone tear trickled down his weatherworn cheek, causing Rod to lose his composure and his ability to speak. Farrell reached across the seat and clutched his brother’s hand tightly, the loss of their loved ones more real now than it ever had been. Fighting back the tears, Rod was finally able to carry on and finish his tale. “After a time I could tell that they had to leave. Nothing was said but I could just feel that they had somewhere they had to be. Dad held my shoulders the way he used to, squeezing the muscles here,” he said, grasping the muscle that extended from his neck to his shoulder. He sensed that I wanted to go with them but he said I couldn’t. It broke my heart,” Rod said, desperately trying to hold back the torrent of emotion that was ready to spill over the dam.

  “It’s okay Rod, I understand.”

  “It just felt like I’d never see them again.”

  “I know . . . I know,” Farrell whispered, refusing to release the vice-like grip he had on Rod’s hand.

  “Shirt said I still had too much to do but didn’t elaborate. They both assured me they were happy, and that things were good where they were and not for us to worry. Then they were gone. They walked until I couldn’t see them anymore and I was left standing in the field. The next thing I knew, you were kneeling at my side in the gas station and then it was lights out again, until I woke up at The Alamo. Do you think it really happened? Do you think they’re gone?” he asked.

  “Well, I can’t help but feel that there’s more to it than your imagination, but I know one thing. I’m sure glad they sent you back.”

  “Me too, but it felt so natural that I should go with them.” Rod paused before expressing his final thought, “Thanks for hearing me out. I thought it was something that was intended for both of us.”

  Farrell stared through the windshield, not really seeing but thinking deeply. He finally released the hold he’d had on Rod’s hand and wiped the dampness from his cheek. The memory of his father and brother was so sweet that the enlightened knowledge of their present condition helped to provide a touch of peace and closure to his cynical heart.

  With the thought of Rod’s dream still in the back of his mind, Farrell and the other men busied themselves in the parking lot of the old resort. The friends ‘geared up’, securing heavy ammo belts around their waists and donning orange vests or hats, as they’d always done. Each carried a high-powered, bolt-action hunting rifle, except for Clark, who preferred a semi-automatic Ruger with open sights. Farrell, as well, used the v-shaped open sight on his Winchester rather than going hi-tech as Rod and Roger had, with 10x scopes sitting atop their 7mm rifles.

  “Roger, you know this country better than any of us. How would you recommend we proceed?” Rod asked.

  “Well, the other day when we drove past here I saw a little ravine about a mile or so up to the west. Looks like it has pretty good cover and there used to be a natural spring close by. Guess we could start there,” Roger suggested.

  “Sounds like a plan,” Clark said. “Farrell, why don’t you and I head up the left side and let these other two swing up to the right? Anything we scare up will hopefully stay in the bottom and we can get some shots as they head out, over the top.”

  “Okay boys, biggest buck,” the Sergeant reminded them. “Not size but rack -- good luck!”

  The actions slammed forward as each man slid a live round from the magazine to the chamber, the sound solid and sure. Moving away from the trucks, the paired hunters ventured beyond the resort and into the brush that stretched several miles up the mountainside. Jokes and laughter drifted back and forth until the separation between the groups was distant enough that they could no longer hear or see one another. It was at that point that the hunt began for real, eyes scanning the trees and bushes for movement or horns.

  * * *

  Two hours following the hunter’s departure from The Alamo, Allison arrived at Elva’s room, anxious to get together for their mid-morning walk. The friends had made it a daily task, one which they cherished as they prepared for the birth of Elva’s child. They shared laughter and sometimes tears and their inner most secrets and fears, as they walked lap after lap around The Quad or maneuvered the stairs of Old Main. The pregnancy team-leader knocked and waited patiently for Elva to invite her in. A minute passed with no reply, but then, so very faint that Allison could scarcely make it out, she heard a soft rapping with a barely audible plea for help.

  Chapter 46

  “What do we have here?” Don said, not expecting a reply as his inner monologue spoke aloud. He walked circles around the brown and tan pickup that was located, along with another, in the golf course’s parking lot. “I think we’ve struck gold today, boys. This here, for sure, is Sergeant Farrell Jenson’s truck.” Some of those tagging along with the oversized leader had been present the day, months ago, when Farrell’s tactics had decimated their ranks and killed many of their friends. The savagery, since that time, had reached a level that even surprised Don. The Harvesters, more wild and ferocious than he could have imagined, had taken to marking themselves with a sickle, burned into their upper arms with a heated metal iron. Today, the group was hunting for meat, whether animal or human, it didn’t matter to the bloodthirsty crew. Either would satisfy their society’s need for nourishment, their personal craving for taking life and the all-important need for liver.

  “Benny, you and Matt find someplace close by where you can ambush them if they make it back to their trucks. The rest of you, come with me and we’ll do some harvesting,” Don ordered, bringing a subdued but still recognizable cheer from the men.

  Clark and Farrell were making their way up the left shoulder of the v-shaped ravine, just west of what had been the 13th fairway. A fiberglass pole still emerged from the green’s overgrown and unruly grass, a tattered flag hanging limply along its length. A sand trap, not fully overwhelmed with weeds, gave the pair some hope that they’d come to the right place, when they spotted deer droppings amongst the weeds and compacted sand. Mother Nature had been hard at work since the closing of the course. The hunters had to use their imagination to see fairways, greens and hazards, but when studied, the layout could still be outlined. Nature, as always from the beginning of time, has a way of fulfilling its destiny, with or without the aid of man. The two marveled, as they stood high enough above the rolling landscape that they could map out the previous design. Pools of rainwater now stood where excavated traps had been, seedling trees sprang up in the middle of once tediously manicured and contoured putting surfaces; the f
orest had reclaimed its own, no less striking and beautiful than it had been as a prestigious resort.

  “Quite a sight,” Clark marveled, taking in the surroundings and the way in which nature overcomes and improvises.

  “Yes, it is. Didn’t take long for Ol’ Mother Nature to take it all back,” Farrell noted. “In a couple of years it’ll be forest just like everything around it. The buildings, down below, will be the only giveaway that anything manmade was ever here.”

  “Yup, I believe you’re right there. Hope the deer population has been growing as much as everything else,” Clark said, crossing his fingers and looking to heaven.

  “I guess we’ll know that before too long. Those droppings looked pretty fresh. I didn’t taste one, so I can’t be sure how fresh, but I think we’re in for a good hunt.”

  “Taste one? Got to be a story there!”

  “Oh yeah! When we were little boys, Rod and me, we’d gone deer hunting with my dad and some of our uncles out near Star Valley.” The Sergeant continued his tale as they left the view behind and began back up the hillside. They held their rifles casually, the butts resting at their beltlines and the muzzles aimed safely into the sky, their right hands holding the stock just behind the action. Clark listened intently as Farrell went on with his childhood memory. ”We were out hiking, just like we are now, and Rod kept asking my dad, ‘What are these?’ each time he spotted a pile of deer droppings. Clear as anything, I can hear my dad saying, ‘They’re smart pills.’”

  “Smart pills?” Clark asked, with a puzzled look on his face.

  “Sure enough - smart pills. Of course, I was old enough to know that it was a bunch of baloney but Rod was really taking it all in. So after about the fourth time of him asking and my dad telling him they’re smart pills, Rod stopped at a fairly fresh pile, picked one up and popped it in his mouth.”

  “What happened?” Clark asked, already smiling in anticipation of the story’s ending.

  “Oh, he chewed on it for a second or two, then spit it out on the ground. He was just a cussing and I was busting my gut. When he’d finally got the last of that ‘smart pill’ out from between his teeth, he said to my dad, ‘Those aren’t smart pills! That’s deer crap!’ My dad just smiled and replied, ‘See, you’re getting smarter already.’” There was a pause while the men tried to keep from laughing, possibly scaring away any nearby game.

  Farrell, his memory tossed back in time a dozen years, concluded, “Clark, I can’t tell you how much I miss that man. He worked us like slaves when we were young, but he sure knew how to make men of boys.”

  “Yeah, I miss my old dad too. Won’t ever be another generation like ‘em,” Clark asserted.

  “Agreed.” Both men looked across the narrow valley, deer now the furthest thing from their minds, until Farrell finally spoke, “Where do you think those other two have gotten to?”

  “Don’t know, but there sure isn’t much shooting going on. Let’s find us a spot where we can watch the ridgelines. Maybe we’ll get lucky and catch an old buck trying to sneak on out of here,” Clark suggested.

  Chapter 47

  Allison couldn’t hold back the ‘No’ that she shouted, as she grasped and spun the doorknob that was the only thing keeping her from her distraught friend. It twisted without restriction, releasing the bolt and granting her access. She moved quickly into the converted space, looking wildly about for Elva, calling her name at the top of her lungs. “Elva, I’m here! I’m here!”

  Shortly after her husband and the others had left for the day’s hunt, Elva had dressed in her walking clothes and sat in the rocker that Farrell had so lovingly cleaned, stained and placed next to the small bassinet. The expectant mother had rocked; her eyes closed, and thought of the adventure laid before them, with the inherent risks and challenges that surely would come. As the day of her child’s delivery approached, she worried more than she’d dared express to her friends, or even Farrell. Some days she’d felt as if she was just hanging on, her life force slowly being pulled from her, and she knew not why. In those quiet moments, when only she and God knew her inner most thoughts and worries, she had poured her heart out, seeking comfort for herself and safety for her unborn child. Peace had come, not in the way she had expected or wanted, but in a calm, quiet voice that spoke to her soul, providing the strength she needed to carry on.

  The discomfort had started more like a cramp than pain, a twinge that rolled from her groin to her chest, taking her breath away. She’d stood to walk, recognizing the unusual nature of the pain, it not being akin to the birthing stories the older ladies had related as they’d met in their group forum. The first step, though difficult, she had managed, but the second sent her to her knees, a convulsive stabbing, unlike anything she’d experienced before, tearing at her insides and pushing her to the edge of unconsciousness. Waves of agony, with only brief seconds of minimal relief, swept over her as she dragged herself across the floor, a vision of her death and the resultant loss of her child flashing unendingly through her mind. A wash of bright-red, oxygenated blood trailed the desperate woman, her life’s essence slowly dripping from her tormented womb. The welcome knock had come only seconds after she had given up and willed herself into God’s hands.

  “Elva, what’s happened? Did you fall?” came the shouts, as Allison rushed into the room where Elva was struggling and writhing in her own blood. The horror and sadness of Allison’s delivery was instantly fresh and unsettling. Her heart went out to her best friend. The pain was obviously ripping at Elva’s abdomen, causing her tongue to seize and the muscles and vessels in her neck to protrude. With a sense of urgency, Allison retrieved a pillow and blanket from the nearby bed and provided what little comfort she could. “I need to get help. Do you understand?”

  Elva nodded her head, her eyes rolling back and the lids clenching tightly, forcing a stream of tears to run down the side of her face and into her hairline. “Hurry!” she whispered, between clenched teeth.

  “I will! Hold on! Please, hold on!” Forcing herself to leave, Allison ran from the room and down the tiled hallway, yelling and weeping as she went. She exited the structure seconds later, a look of wild abandon on her face as she scanned the surroundings for help. Bringing her hands up, cupping either side of her mouth, she shouted over and over again, “Help! Help! Help!” The fervent cry did not go unheeded as members of The Ward ran from their rooms, dropping everything, the call piercing their hearts.

  Cory was the first to reach Allison, sprinting across The Quad, his long, powerful legs churning and shoes tossing loose grass behind him. “Allison, what’s happened?” he yelled, as he skidded to an abrupt stop next to his overwrought friend.

  “Elva! It’s Elva! She’s in trouble! Get Remy! Hurry Cory! Bring Dr. Reynolds to Elva’s room. There’s something terribly wrong! There’s blood everywhere! I don’t know how long she can hold on!”

  Without saying a word, Cory turned and sped away, frantically casting his eyes about the campus in search of the doctor. He could see others now racing to Allison, anxious to provide assistance as they were able. The commotion brought Godfrey out of the lab and into the area adjacent to The Quad. He’d spent another long night calculating, and then recalculating the formula necessary to overcome the deficiencies he’d come to acknowledge in the first, not fully tested formula, which Elva and the others had received. With Remy’s help, they had concluded that the initial medication was effective for a short duration, long enough for a woman to get pregnant but the effects on the baby were still unproven. He surmised that perhaps today was the day that would yield the proof they’d been waiting for. The angular gentleman picked up his feet and stretched his long legs as he galloped across the open space to the crowd that was quickly forming around Allison.

  Moments later, Godfrey stood alone in front of Elva’s housing unit, his white lab coat unbuttoned and flapping gently in the morning’s breeze. He watched carefully for Remy and was relieved to see him and Cory hustling toward him, both bu
rdened with an armful of medical equipment. “Remy, Elva’s in trouble! I sent everyone else inside! She needs you now!” Whitcomb blurted out.

  “Okay, one of you go find Farrell,” the doctor ordered, already dashing for the doors.

  “Cory, you stay with Dr. Reynolds. Farrell is hunting with Rod. I’ll see if I can raise him on the radio! He needs to get back here!” Godfrey concluded, the men separating as if leaving a huddle.

  Chapter 48

  Don and three others pushed up the hill, following in the path that Farrell and company had forged before them. A heavily winded and sweating Bullock stopped a short distance along the path and encouraged the others to proceed until they were able to engage and dispatch the hunters. He assured them, as only he could, that from his vantage point he, along with Benny and Matt, would provide covering fire and ambush any survivors. The more robust Harvesters moved quickly up the trail, leaving a wheezing and bellyaching Don sitting between two large boulders. Tim, a pierced and tattooed punk with a string of kills under his belt, assumed a leadership role and quietly issued orders to his companions as they carefully maneuvered up the mountainside and through overgrown brush.

  A half a mile up the narrowing canyon, Rod and Roger dropped from the ridgeline and into the bottom of the ravine, hoping to push any game out the other side and into the waiting sights of Farrell and Clark. The cover, thick and tangled, slowed the pair and reduced their line of sight. Roger suddenly froze and waved at Rod to do the same. Ahead, and just over a fallen log, he could see the grey backside of a resting ‘muley’, with a prominent rack visible through a mesh of tree limbs. The animal’s head was obscured but there was no doubt that he’d just found his ‘King for a Day’ opportunity. With his heart pumping and his breath coming faster, he motioned for Rod to swing left while he circled right in anticipation of a cleaner shot. Both men crept silently through the mass of foliage, stopping periodically to unsnarl their clothing from the tiny vegetative barbs that reached out to slow them down.