The Living Hunger

by Dennis F. Larsen

  Easing into position, the two prepared to take a shot when an unexpected gust of wind pushed Roger forward, snapping a twig loud enough to alert the resting buck. On its feet in a bound, the animal was up and running away from the duo in a flash. Roger reflexively raised his rifle but couldn’t find the target in his scope as it dodged its way through the mix of trees and bushes. Rod, on the other hand, had no difficulty and pulled down on the charging deer, firing two quick shots, missing with both, before the buck went over a small rise and was gone. The two scrambled through the spinney brush in rapid pursuit of the fleeing animal, hollering at their friends and family as they went.

  A few hundred feet further up the canyon, Farrell and Clark patiently waited for an opportunity to strike after hearing the two gunshots seconds before. They looked for orange but could see none. The ploughing of boots or hoofs, moving in the thicket below them heightened their awareness. Clark flicked the safety off on his rifle and sat behind a rock, resting his arms on the immovable object for support. Farrell stood, walking the ridgeline, searching the ravine for any sign of movement, when the panic-driven buck burst forth just below them, crashing from the bottom into the less dense canyon shoulder.

  Clark was first to fire, kicking up a small plume of dirt at the big buck’s heels, sending the animal back toward the bottom to the safety of the overgrown cover. Another shot, this time from Farrell’s 270, turned the animal back up the hill in a death-defying race for its life. Roger and Rod cleared the dense growth that had slowed them and were running undeterred up the steadily steepening slope, jumping over the smaller shrubs, anxious for another shot at the fleeing deer. As the buck reached the top of the canyon, running flat-out, the group of hunters increased the lead flying through the air. Each took a few loping steps before stopping long enough to fire a shell, slide a live round back into the chamber, and then repeat the process again. Near the top of the canyon and running along the crest of the ridge, the remnant of an old barb wired fence zigzagged haphazardly. Perhaps it had been useful years ago in keeping cattle below, but now it served no purpose. The hunters watched the animal escape, extending its lead to 400 yards, the dilapidated fence its last hurdle to freedom.

  The others had given up, and stood sucking in great gulps of air while wiping the beads of sweat from their brows, but Farrell had not. He sat calmly on a flat rock just large enough to keep his behind out of the spring grass, and dug his heels into the sod with his knees bent and almost at shoulder level. Pressing his elbows into the inside of each knee, he steadied himself with the high-powered rifle nestled into the hollow of his shoulder. His eyes followed the bouncing buck, aligned with the iron sights. Farrell controlled his urge to fire, waiting for the shot he knew would be his last. He smoothly inched the barrel to his left as the large mule deer reached the crest and sailed into the air, its front legs and hooves outstretched and straining to clear the fence. For a fraction of a second the hunter and the hunted were suspended in time. Farrell inhaled slowly and applied some tension to the trigger, then squeezed, launching a deadly projectile the 700 yards to the intended target.

  Rod and the others watched in amazement as the spinning bullet left the report of the rifle behind and shot toward the hurdling deer. “What the heck!” Rod exclaimed, watching the deer clear the fence but recognizing that something had happened. “I think you hit it! I saw something fly! Maybe you clipped an antler but looks like he made it to the other side.” Farrell smiled and remained silent, suppressing the butterflies that filled his stomach as the group made a beeline for the animal’s last known location.

  At the fence, Clark retrieved a perfectly structured antler with five hardened points. “Look at this! Blew it right off its head!” Clark said excitedly, as the others rushed to peer over the ridge, expecting to see the animal there.

  “Sure enough - lookie there, Farrell,” Roger said, pointing at the body of the fallen deer, which had come to rest after tumbling a few yards down the other side, a large hole where the antler had been and where the bullet entered.

  “Nice shot, big brother. Bet you couldn’t do that again in a million years,” Rod exclaimed, patting Farrell on the back.

  “Thanks. That was fun but not near as much fun as my special day is going to be,” Farrell said, taking the first few steps down the abrupt slope to retrieve his trophy.

  “Tie a loop around its hind legs and we’ll pull it up here where we can clean it easier,” Roger offered, tossing a small loop of rope down the hill to Farrell.

  The hunting party relived the story of the amazing shot again while they gutted and cleaned the deer. They took special care and precaution to preserve the liver, which was stored in a small pack Clark had brought along. Due to the degree of noise brought forth in the wild chase, the hunt for the day was over. Any remaining deer were now well on their way to the next county and the men were tired. After wrapping the gutted deer in plastic, Rod and Clark lifted the animal up and onto Farrell’s shoulders for the walk down the mountain. The men had debated leaving the deer’s head attached as a form of proof for Farrell’s astounding shot but the Sergeant had decided against it, once he felt the weight of the buck across his shoulders. Thankfully, for the unsuccessful three, ‘King for a Day’ would wait until the hunter had packed his prize to the bottom of the hill. However, Rod was kind enough to carry his brother’s rifle.

  A joyful mood permeated the air as the friends joked and laughed, giving little thought to their surroundings. They had gone up the mountain with no trouble and expected the walk down to be that much easier. When they reached the spot near where the buck had been kicked from the brush, Roger issued a request, “Say thank you, Farrell.”

  “For what?” the big man asked.

  “For your brother and me tromping through that thick brush down there so you could get your glory shot.”

  “Oh, is that right? Well, thank you both. Which one of you wants to carry this heavy beast the rest of the way down the hill?” he said jokingly.

  “I will if you want me to,” Rod said, knowing that his older brother would not allow it.

  “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll manage,” Farrell said, smiling and winking at Rod.

  “Hey listen, Farrell, when we get back I’ve got a . . . ” Roger never finished his sentence as a tumbling round fired from a modified M-16 ripped through the left side of his throat, whipping his head back and knocking him off his feet. He clutched at his neck, blood spurting in a geyser between his splayed fingers, an unforgettable look of shock and horror written across his face. A split second later, the hillside was alive with gunfire and hot, spinning lead. As Farrell and the others dove for cover, the weight of the deer knocked the wind from the Sergeant’s chest.

  Rod crawled to Roger but the spurting had already stopped and the light was taken from his eyes. Will it ever end? Rod thought, as he frantically scrambled back to the spot where Farrell had gone down.

  Chapter 49

  Remy and Cory had no trouble locating Elva and her helpers, as the screams drifted down the empty hallway like a megaphone, calling them in. Inside the room, a circle of women knelt on the floor surrounding the obviously physically and emotionally distressed Elva. Allison held her friend’s head in her lap, gently wiping her forehead and cheeks with a damp cloth, which she routinely dipped and wrung out in a small bowl. Blood was still seeping from between her extended legs, heartache overtaking the first responders who were unsure what they could do to help.

  “Okay, I need everybody but Allison and Cory to leave the room,” Dr. Reynolds ordered, waving his arms in hopes of speeding up the reluctant women.

  “Me? Why do you need me? I don’t know anything about babies,” a surprised Cory squawked, wishing Remy had spoken anybody’s name but his own.

  “I may need someone strong enough to hold her down, if it comes to that. You’re staying,” Remy said, a curt finality to his tone. “Come on ladies, we’ll call you back if we need further help, but she needs some room to breath
e,” he continued, rounding up the women and pushing them out the door.

  Quickly returning to Elva’s side, he took her wrist in his hand and counted as he felt the faint but distinct pulses push against his index finger. Allison could see him counting, trying to read his facial expression once he released her wrist, and laid it gently at her side. He did not speak until he’d wound a blood pressure cuff around the pregnant woman’s upper arm. “Elva, this might cause you some discomfort.” He spoke in a calm, even tone, not wanting to cause the woman any more alarm than she was already experiencing. Discomfort, that was silly, he thought, looking into the face of a woman who was beyond discomfort and well on her way to excruciating. Her face twisted, the pain coming in waves of exquisite torment. What little movement she exhibited was the result of muscular spasm and was not voluntary. “I’m going to give you something for the pain,” he said, speaking to Elva before he turned to the friend at her side. “Allison, let’s get her out of those clothes. Cory, lend a hand.”

  “But Farrell will . . . ” Cory failed to complete his thought as Remy cut him off and completed it for him.

  “Farrell will string you up if you don’t do everything I say and his wife loses this baby!” Remy held back, but the words ran through his mind: And her own life as well.

  “Right, what do I do?” Cory dropped to the floor and awaited the doctor’s orders.

  “In my bag there’s a pair of scissors. Allison will hold her down while you cut off her clothing. I’ll scrub up and we’ll see what we can do.” Before he left the room, he bent over, injected a syringe of liquid into Elva’s upper arm, and then spoke ever so quietly into Allison’s ear. “She’s lost a lot of blood. The placenta has to be torn or she’s got a ruptured aneurysm. In either case, her blood pressure is dangerously low. Heartbeat is below 40. I’m really scared Allison. I’m not trained for this sort of thing, but I know we need to get her baby out of her womb now!”

  The young woman turned and looked into the frightened eyes of a man she trusted and said, “Remy, you can do this. Save my friend and her baby.” The words were spoken with confidence and hope, pushing the surgeon to save the troubled pair. He rushed from the room, giving Cory and Allison enough time to cut the clothing from Elva’s body. Once she was free from the fabric’s restraints, the stream of blood was evident, dripping slightly from the opening between her legs until a contraction hit, forcing the mixture of blood and amniotic fluid from her vagina in a gush.

  By the time Dr. Reynolds returned, his hands encased in plastic and a collection of shiny instruments in a metallic tray, the effect of the narcotic was taking hold. Elva’s breathing stabilized and she was able to speak but only in hushed tones and halting sentences. “Elva, can you hear me?” he asked.

  She nodded and tried to whisper, “Yes.”

  “You’re losing a great deal of blood. I’m sure the baby is distressed and I’ll need to get him out of there as quickly as I can. I don’t think we have any choice but to do a C-section. Do you understand?”

  She responded as she’d done before.

  Remy ran his hand over her stomach to determine the baby’s position and depth. “Allison, hold her shoulders and Cory, her legs. Be firm! I can’t have her moving while I do this. There’s a towel over there,” he said, motioning with his head toward a pile of items near the doorway. “Once I’ve got the baby clear, I want you to wrap the child in it and do what you can to comfort it,” he said, looking directly into Allison’s eyes. An unspoken cry for divine help passed between them in that instant. “Elva, are you ready?”

  Again she nodded but added in a hushed whisper, “Remy, . . . do it.”

  “Okay Elva, I’ve given you something for the pain and I’ll numb your stomach as much as I’m able, but I’ll need you to be strong.”

  She blinked her understanding and reached for Allison’s hand.

  The doctor, after swabbing the entire area with Xylocaine, retrieved a scalpel from the tray and sliced through the first layers of skin, creating a smile like incision in the stretched tissue. Elva held tightly to her friend, shallow yelps escaping her lips as she teetered on the edge of consciousness. A flow of crimson-red blood oozed from the separating membranes as he repeated the cut over and over again; sinking the blade just enough with each pass as not to endanger the fetus. With the dermis incised and the muscle layer opened, he was finally ready to enter the womb. Cory watched transfixed, silently calling for a power greater than his own to save Elva and her child. Allison offered words of comfort to her barely conscious friend, while holding her tightly and doing her best to prevent Elva from seeing the gruesome sight just below her breasts.

  With the final incision made, which penetrated the womb’s wall and placenta, an eight-inch gap appeared in Elva’s abdomen. The stress and pain of the ordeal finally caught up to Elva as a slick, blood-laced fluid bubbled out of the incision, spilling over the tissue and down onto the floor. A heavy fog encompassed the young woman, briefly freeing her from the torturous pain. Seconds later, a tiny foot appeared through the opening, followed by a second, which moved rhythmically back and forth as if the child was anxious to leave his water-filled cocoon and get his feet on the ground. Remy reached into the cavity and finding the base of the head and neck, supported the baby as he pulled it fully from Elva’s abdomen. Dense, dark hair swirled wetly in the mix of blood and fluid that coated the child’s head. A thick layer of white, chalk-like matter covered the boy’s olive colored skin.

  “You were right,” Allison said. “It’s a beautiful baby boy with lots of dark hair, just like his father.” She was sure Elva was unable to hear her but she continued to speak, hoping the sound of her voice would retrieve her friend from wherever her mind had taken her.

  Remy did his best to clear the baby’s mouth of blood and debris but could tell the child was still struggling with each breath. Lacking the proper instrumentation, he finally pulled the boy to his mouth and gently sucked, drawing the obstructive matter from the infant’s airway. The baby coughed and sputtered but finally cried in loud, welcomed shrieks that only a newborn can utter. Remy expelled the sputum from his mouth and handed the child to Allison, after severing the umbilical cord.

  The cold cloth and Allison’s gentle words did, after a few minutes, bring Elva around, at least enough that she could comprehend what had happened. “Is he okay?” Elva managed to say, desperately trying to raise her head for a better look at her child.

  “He’s doing well,” Remy said, having returned his attention to Elva as he placed a bloodied finger along the angle of her jaw, drawing a very faint pulse from the carotid artery. Allison wrapped the shivering, wrinkle-skinned baby in the towel and held him close, while Dr. Reynolds and Cory continued to work on her friend.

  Again Elva repeated with a renewed sense of urgency and the words running together, “Is he okay?”

  “Yes Elva, he’s beautiful,” Allison confirmed.

  “No. No, is he normal?” she asked, trying to raise her hands enough to take the child from Allison.

  “Yes, by my count he’s got ten fingers, ten toes, dark eyes and a pretty good pair of lungs. He’s perfect Elva. Just perfect,” she exclaimed, kneeling down so that Elva could get a look at her son. Tears spilled from the women’s eyes as they shared in that moment. An instant bond was formed as the baby reached out and wrapped its miniature fingers around Elva’s pinky, the touch forging a connection that would transcend time, space and eternity.

  “He is perfect, isn’t he,” Elva breathed, her voice fading away.

  Remy fought to repair the damage from the surgery and to find the source of the continued blood loss. With the placenta removed and the incision stitched, the blood continued to flow. Though somewhat slower, it still presented a crisis to his patient’s heart rate and blood pressure. He finally reached into his bag and withdrew another ampoule of narcotic. “Elva, can you hear me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I can’t get the bleeding to stop. I’m sorry
, I . . . I’m afraid you may have the same blood disorder that Len had. The other option is an aneurysm that I can’t see without doing surgery. I don’t know if you’ve got the strength . . . ” He held her hand and leaned in close to the little woman. “What do you want me to do?”

  She closed her eyes and rolled her head back and forth.

  “Elva, I think you’ll need another dose of this,” he said, as he placed the needle against her upper arm.

  She stopped him with a gentle nod of her head. Breathlessly she whispered, “Allison, help me hold my boy. I need to feel him close to me. I need to feel his heart beat against mine so he can know that I was his mother, if only for a minute or two.” Allison took the naked child from the towel and laid him on Elva’s breast, the child’s head nestled against his mother’s chin. “Remy, I know you’ve done all you can do. I’m good with it. Really! I’ve known for awhile that this is how the end would come for me.” She coughed and tried to carry on, the words now taking great effort and control.

  “Cory, get a blanket and cover her up. We need to make her as comfortable as we can. Where’s Farrell? For heaven’s sake where’s this little boy’s father?” Remy cried, the tears now flowing freely down his face as the realization hit him that there was nothing further he could do to save or prolong the dying woman’s life.

  Chapter 50

  On a hill, not so many miles away from Jeffrey’s birthplace but beyond radio contact, three men crawled on their bellies to find cover from the onslaught of heavy automatic weapons fire, which was pelting the mountainside with lead and copper. The attackers had been wise in choosing their assault locations, so that they could triangulate the targets and pin them down instantly.