The Living Hunger

by Dennis F. Larsen

  “Roger’s gone!” Rod screamed above the whine of the shells zinging over their heads, while others slammed into the ground very close to their prone bodies.

  “They’ll chew us up if we stay here! We’ve got to get down into the ravine and work our way back to the trucks. It’s our only hope!” Farrell yelled to his companions.

  “I’ll lay down some cover. You two make a run for it. I’ll be right behind you,” Clark bellowed, rising to his knees and flicking his finger repeatedly back and forth on the Ruger’s trigger, each time rocketing a round at the attackers. Farrell and Rod rolled away from Clark, their momentum carrying them down the hill as errant slugs burrowed into the terrain all around them.

  With his clip empty, Clark dropped to the ground, discharged the magazine and retrieved a full one from his belt, ramming it home. He peered down the hill in hopes of seeing Farrell and Rod but could not, however, a moment later he heard the unmistakable report of their rifles and knew they had made it. Distant shouts carried on the wind reached his ears, but the overwhelming din of the firefight prevented him from deciphering the message. ‘Courage is not the absence of fear, but the mastery of it.’ Like a ticker tape, this thought ran through his head, resurfacing from somewhere along his life’s journey. It emboldened him now. “I’ve got to flank them,” he said. The sound of his voice, though strange, provided a sense of comfort and told him he was not alone.

  Checking that his semi-automatic rifle was off safety, he lifted his head high enough to get his bearings before rolling twice to his right, jumping to his feet, and running for a pile of rocks 50 feet away. The motion brought a torrent of small ballistic missiles his way, most kicking up dirt at his heels, some clipping his clothing but none touching flesh. He arrived at the heap of stones, intact, but out of breath and sucking wind badly. “Flank them? That was a stupid idea!” he said to himself again, wishing that he’d gone down the hill and joined his friends. Thinking of his next action caused him to extend his tongue and pull a portion of his mustache into his mouth, sucking on it nervously while he prepared for his next move.

  Three! There has to be three of them! Clark frantically tried to remember the layout below him and where the attackers would be. The ‘zing’ of bullets striking rock forced him to keep his head down, but he knew he needed to act. Can’t get pinned down! Gotta move and draw their fire away from the others, he reasoned, bringing his feet back underneath him as he prepared to venture into the hail of fire again. Rising, he flashed a look down the hill and sprinted for a fallen tree while pumping the trigger on the rifle held at his waist. He knew the shells were wasted but it somehow made him feel better. A rising fear and adrenalin propelled him forward, lifting and dropping his feet faster than he could ever remember. Suddenly and before he’d reached the safety of the tree trunk, he detected motion in his peripheral vision. Not a distinct image but movement accompanying muzzle flashes of light.

  Training and muscle memory took over as Clark dived headlong, the Mini-14 leading the way. He performed a perfect somersault, coming to rest on one knee, the assault rifle pulled to his shoulder. A Harvester was walking on a diagonal to his position, crouching and firing, then moving again to get a better shot. The thought ‘Center Mass’ rushed through Clark’s mind as he steadied the sights on the man’s chest. Ignoring the bullets striking around him, he pulled the trigger only once, and then waited for the instrument of death to recover from the recoil, and settle back into place. His target stopped his movement and firing but did not go down. The small .223 caliber shell had blown clean through the man’s right lung and out his back. Stunned and unsure of what had happened, the Harvester looked to his chest and the growing circle of red forming on the t-shirt that he wore. He tried to lift his own rifle to bear on his killer but could not, its weight overcoming his strength.

  Their eyes met briefly, hunter and prey in a sudden reversal of roles. Clark imagined, for a split second, that the hardness was taken from the assailant’s face as he called out for mercy, though there would be none. The next two rounds fired from the Ruger, in quick succession, struck Don’s zombie-like follower, exploding his heart and killing him instantly, providing the only form of mercy Clark was capable of giving today. Paralyzed, not by fear, but by the pathetic look on the man’s face as his life was taken from him, Clark was immobilized, but only briefly, before he plunged ahead and rolled behind the fallen log, a trail of lead riding up the opposite side, sending splinters flying.

  In the ravine, using an alternating method of providing cover-fire, Rod and Farrell battled their way down the forested valley; one taking cover and shooting while the other advanced and prepared to do the same for his brother. When Clark had not immediately joined them and as the sound of his Ruger faded away, they anticipated his logic and moved to take advantage of his selfless act.

  “Rod, we’ve got to take out the guy to our left, then we can swing around and help Clark!” Farrell yelled, just loud enough for Rod to hear above the battle’s commotion.

  “What do you want me to do?” Rod replied.

  “Get rid of the orange for starters!” Farrell ordered, taking the time to pull his hunter’s orange from off his shoulders. “I’m sure he’s firing from behind that knoll on the ridgeline 50 yards down. Get set up where you can see that spot and I’ll move out into the open on the left. When he pops up to fire, take him out.”

  “Simple as that?” Rod queried.

  “Simple as that.”

  “Only problem is, you’re the better shot,” Rod said, moving closer to his brother to finalize their plan.

  “And your point is?”

  “My point is this. You’re more apt to hit him and I’m faster on my feet. This plan only makes sense if I’m the bait and you’re the shot,” Rod stressed, hoping his logic would help Farrell see the light.

  “You sure?” Farrell asked, knowing that it was the right move.

  “You bet. Get settled and shout when you want me to jog out there.”

  The Sergeant scanned his surroundings, looking for the perfect site to fire from, while Rod prepared to charge the knoll. A large birch tree hugged the edge of the denser brush, providing some cover and a perfectly placed v-shaped notch from which Farrell could fire. The tree would support the weight of the rifle and stabilize the sights.

  “You ready?” the shooter asked, standing with his feet a shoulder’s width apart and leaning into the .270.

  “Yup. Just give me the word,” Rod said, followed by a quick afterthought. “Don’t shoot me!”

  “Right! Just stay out of my line-of-sight. Run up and to your left but don’t take your eyes off that knoll. If you get in trouble, hit the deck and I’ll be a comin’!”

  Rod nodded his understanding, opened the chamber of his rifle to confirm that a live round was inserted and placed his feet as if he were preparing to run a 100-yard-dash.

  “Anytime you’re ready,” Farrell said, taking a deep breath and preparing to fire.

  Less than 30 seconds later, Rod burst forth from the brush, running like a madman exactly in the direction that he’d been told to traverse. The rifle in his hands swung right and then left with each step, acting as a balance bar as he navigated the uneven ground. From across the valley and where they could not see, the brothers heard a crescendo of semi-auto fire, providing hope that Clark was still alive and giving their attackers trouble. Farrell anxiously watched the outcropping, paying special attention to Rod, angling ever closer to the suspect’s position.

  “What’s he waiting for?” Farrell whispered, his right eye glued to the rear sight, aligning it perfectly with the front. “Come on, come on!”

  Rod covered the distance much more quickly than Farrell thought possible, causing the older brother’s blood pressure to rise and beads of sweat to form instantly on his neck and face. Rod slowed somewhat, as he closed the distance to ten yards, loping the last few feet and spinning the barrel of his rifle at the mound. Just as he did, the lone attacker raised himself en
ough to expose his shoulders and head, topped with a baseball hat spun around to keep the visor out of his way. His threatening, black rifle cleared the crest of the hill as the Harvester began firing well before his muzzle was aimed at the figure rushing him. Sweeping the barrel from his left to right and with the trigger pulled and held firm, the rifle had already blasted through most of the 30 round clip, when Rod, still advancing at the gunman, fired a single shot from the hip. The bullet delivered a glancing blow to the assailant’s shoulder, pitching the assault rifle’s barrel up and over Rod’s head, the last of the shells sailing into space.

  For Farrell, the designated shooter, his plan of attack unraveled as the random barrage of slugs fired from the Harvester’s assault rifle fractured small branches, as well as Farrell’s right shoulder. A spinning round had creased the tree trunk before slamming into his joint. The impact, though slowed somewhat by the tree’s bark, jerked Farrell back, causing him to fire his rifle, sending an errant ballistic in Rod’s direction. Pain and panic were immediate, but shock did not arrive until Farrell regained his balance and saw Rod hurdle the knoll, and vanish from sight.

  “Rod, no!” he bellowed, with all the energy he could muster. The Sergeant’s right arm hung limp and useless at his side, a stream of blood running from the wound, the pain searing as bone ground against bone. He frantically tried to eject the spent shell with the barrel of his .270 resting in the notch of the tree. The birch provided some support, but the task of reaching over the action and working the bolt with his left hand, while bracing the stock against his side, was almost impossible. Hurry, hurry, he thought, knowing a fraction of a second could be the difference between life and death for his sibling.

  Farrell finally managed to eject the spent shell casing from the chamber, forcing the next live round from the magazine into the hollow receptacle, and readied himself to fire. He lifted the stock to his left shoulder and grasped the grip and trigger assembly with his left hand. Looking down the barrel he was unable to see anything but the knoll’s gentle rise with no bodies present. “Rod!” he blurted out, and pulled the rifle from the tree’s natural rest. The Sergeant willed himself to hustle to his brother’s rescue, his right arm flopping at his side, slapping grotesquely with each labored step.

  Rod ‘s momentum carried him over the rocky knoll, knowing the fight had been delivered into his hands, when the shot that had come from his rear had not delivered the fatal wallop they had counted on. He had no time to question or even reload, but only to act. Like a well-trained steeplechase competitor he vaulted the hill’s crest, placing one foot on the top, propelling him over the knoll and into the waiting arms of the combatant. The Harvester braced for the collision, his empty assault rifle leveled with one hand at either end, the weapon’s hard surface protecting his chest and neck. The younger Jenson used the leverage coming off the outcropping, pushing with his powerful leg while raising his rifle high in the air, the barrel up and the butt down. The gun was positioned like a piston, ready to ram into his opponent’s skull.

  The two collided in a clash of wood, metal and flesh. Rod’s rifle glanced off the Harvester’s skull, slipped down, dragging the baseball hat with it, and landed fully with a thud, shattering his clavicle. Entangled, each man attempting to get the upper hand, they rolled backwards down the hill, tumbling, kicking and biting as they went. In the fracas, Rod released his rifle and relied on the skills he’d learned as a wrestler, years before, knowing the only trophy he’d take home today would be his life. His opponent was taller and heavier but less skilled at grappling. Rod pressed his advantage, using his speed and unusual strength to turn the tables in the hand-to-hand struggle for supremacy, winding up on top of the assailant, pressing the black assault rifle into the owner’s neck.

  Rod looked into the eyes of the man he was about to kill, searching for a sign of goodness that would enable him to extend a touch of mercy, but only evil and hatred stared back. The little wrestler leaned in all the harder as the man bucked beneath him, a stream of vulgarities spilling forth from his mouth as he cursed God and the man who had bested him. A sense of emptiness washed over Rod. The taking of another’s life, up close and so personal, was much harder than he ever imagined, and for a heartbeat he relaxed the pressure he was applying. Recognizing the only break he might catch, the man pushed the rifle up at the same time that he thrust with his feet, rocketing the younger Jenson over his head and further down the hill, disengaging the two.

  The wrestler quickly scrambled to his feet and lunged back up the hill, as the kneeling Harvester worked a clip from his belt and popped it into place. Rod was on top of him before he could bring the muzzle to bear on his frame, both men wrapped their hands around the assault rifle attempting to pry it from the other. They pulled and spun, trying to put the other off balance but each held their ground, turning the struggle into a macabre waltz. Up the hill a tall figure abruptly appeared, casting his shadow over the fighting men. He stood with a rifle extending from his left hand and his right side awash in fresh blood.

  “Rod, let him go! Let him go! I’ve got him!” Farrell screamed, following the Harvester with the rifle’s bore as the two danced about the mountainside. Rod did what he was told and with a final, mighty heave, dropped onto his back in a classic wrestling move, and put both feet into his partner’s belly and lifted him over his head. He timed his release of the rifle and thrust with his legs perfectly, sending the Harvester flying a good seven feet into the air. The punk landed on his back with an exaggerated grunt, knocking the wind from his chest but still managing to roll to his front, never releasing the rifle and pointing it back up the hill at the brothers.

  The hardened war veteran recognized scum when he saw it and acted without hesitation. He knew how to kill and was good at it, but never found pleasure in the act, unlike so many he’d met since his days with the military. Before the Harvester could fully recover and unleash his weapon’s special kind of hell, the wounded Sergeant extended his own rifle and drilled a perfect tunnel into the punk’s forehead, blowing bone and brain out a fist-sized-hole in the back of the man’s skull.

  Rod lay on the ground, exhausted but relieved. “What happened to you?” He finally managed to say, once he’d caught his breath and rose up on his knees.

  “Lucky shot,” Farrell said, motioning with his cleft chin toward his mangled shoulder. “Come on, grab that assault rifle and bandolier. We’ve got to get to Clark.” Rod bolted from his knees, tugged the gun from the dead man’s hand and began to walk up the hill to the knoll's crest. As he walked, coercing his muscles to work overtime, his gaze moved from his brother’s face to the ground and back again. Unexpectedly, the older brother shrieked at the younger, “Get down, get d . . .” Rod instantly dropped to his belly, seeing a wild terror take over Farrell’s countenance, as a series of bullets blasted over the top of him and silenced his brother, his hero and friend.

  Chapter 51

  Extended prone behind the fallen log, Clark debated his options. Before him there was at least one more antagonist, perhaps more. The sound of the ongoing firefight continued to his left. The echo of automatic weapon fire, interspersed with the occasional report of a high-powered hunting rifle, told him that his friends were still alive. “All right Clark, now what?” he asked, hoping that an answer would somehow miraculously come. Pulling the bolt back on his rifle, he could see a single brass cartridge in the chamber with several stacked below in the magazine. He ran a hand over his belt, letting out an audible sigh of relief when he felt two more full clips attached there. How long will these punks wait before coming for me? he thought. If we can hold out until dark perhaps they’ll lose interest and back their way down the mountain, and return to wherever it was they came from. “Not likely,” he again said aloud, bouncing ideas off himself in an effort to help sort out his dilemma.

  Scurrying along the length of the trunk, he scouted the obstacle for a spy-hole he could use to survey the terrain without exposing himself to undue risk and peril.
Twenty feet into his search he located such a spot, a solid six inch branch twisted away from the main trunk and immediately turned back on itself, creating a breach in the wooden defensive structure, which he could easily see through. He pushed his face very close to the opening, while telling himself that it would be near impossible for anyone downhill from his position, to see what he was doing. The motionless corpse was already drawing flies, and vultures circled the carrion, anxious for the battle to be over and the feast to begin. Clark wasn’t quite sure what he expected to see, beyond the natural sway of the leaves in the afternoon breeze and the overgrown golf course below. However, the shooter was nowhere to be seen.

  He remained thus engaged, with his face pressed to the wooden keyhole, until the sounds of the battle across the narrow valley had died down to nothing. Several reasons for the quiet ran through his head, some good, but most bad. The terrain below yielded no clues as he tried to convince himself that they had ‘bugged out’. They’ve met their match and they’re retreating. While it was a pleasant thought, he put it from his mind, knowing the men they were embroiled with were not the type to back off without good reason.

  As he continued his one-man-debate, he heard the crack of a rifle, fired three times, quickly, but uniformly spaced in time. A hunter in distress! Clark, an experienced woodsman, knew the call and had used it when, on a very different day, he had found himself lost in the woods. The sound had come from exactly where he anticipated the Jenson brothers to be. They wouldn’t have fired the warning if they didn’t need me now! he concluded. Clark gave no thought for himself and took no time to think or second-guess the call, but left the safety of the tree straightaway, and ventured into an unknown scenario to help his friends.