Dead Hunger: The Flex Sheridan Chronicle

by Eric A. Shelman

  “Hey, Flex,” her voice said, recognizing my number on her cell phone. She sounded tired.

  “Afternoon, beautiful. How are my girls? I was thinking about heading down to see you guys. It’s been six months.”

  Jamie sighed. “I’m not sure now’s a good time, Flex. Jack and the girls are fine, but I have a headache. A doozie.” She sounded more distracted than disappointed.

  “That sucks,” I said. “Migraine?”

  There was a pause on the line. “Yes and no . . . not really. Not the normal one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you know how . . . fuck! Fuck!”

  “Jamie, what’s wrong?” She never cussed, and two fucks in a row was unheard of. There was more silence.

  “Jamie?”

  “I’m here,” her voice came, weaker. “I didn’t have the prisms, you know? How I always see prisms in my peripheral vision before one of these comes on? I felt restless, not able to sleep, but having dreams while I was wide awake, like fantasies of . . . of . . . I hate to even say it, but, like cannibalism. Scared the heck out of me, Flex. I don’t . . . ” She trailed off again.

  I waited, but had to prompt her.

  “Like what? Nightmares?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Not like normal nightmares. These were like flashes. Pictures. Images. Just brief, terrible . . . Fuck! Hold on.”

  “Jamie, are you okay? You should be in bed!”

  The line was still live, but she said nothing. I heard her breathing, raspy, short.

  “Flex?” She was back.

  “I’m here, Jamie.”

  “I’m not right," she said, sounding distracted. "I’m so fucking hungry. I’m ravenous, Flex. Like I’m starving!”

  “And you’re dropping the F-bomb more than I’ve ever heard you. What’s that about?”

  “If you knew, Flex. If you knew how this felt! The dreams were terrible, dark visions of . . . I don’t know. Hell, maybe. Darkness. Evil. I felt it. I woke up soaked, and the covers were wrapped around me like I was spinning in my bed. Jack said he tried to wake me, but I just kept mumbling and thrashing.”

  “Jamie, I want you to get to bed. I’m coming over. Right now I’m in Atlanta, so it’ll take me about 5 hours to get to Gainesville from here.”

  “Flex, you don’t have to come. I’ll . . . I’ll . . . FUCK!”

  The phone dropped. I heard screaming. First it was the terrible sound of Jamie screaming.  Next I heard what sounded like a door slamming against a wall.

  My fingers gripped the phone like a vice. Then I heard Jack’s voice in the room, calling for Jamie. I heard some bumping sounds, and then his voice, louder, into the mouthpiece.

  “Hello? Who is this?”

  “Jack! It’s me, Flex. What’s happened to Jamie? She was telling me about her headache, some dreams she had last night, and then she just screamed. Where is she?”

  Jack’s breathing was panicked. “I heard it from my desk in the bedroom, and ran in here. The phone was on the floor, and the door’s wide open. She doesn’t do that because of the swimming pool and the girls. Flex, hold on. Let me check on Jesse and Trina.”

  I held the phone for what seemed to be ten minutes, though it could not have been more than one. His voice finally came back on the line.

  “They’re fine. In their room. Flex, I have to go. I have –”

  There was a loud noise. Crashing. Crunching. A splintering of wood. My fingers – hell, my whole hand was white from the grip I had on my cell. The words I heard right before the line went dead sent an icy chill from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.

  “Jamie! No! What are you – Jamie!” It was Jack’s voice.

  Then just four words from my sister.

  “I’m so fucking hungry –” and a loud, wet sound, followed by a deafening thump as the phone apparently hit the floor.

  I held onto the phone and listened. I screamed for Jamie, pleading for someone to pick up the dropped cell, but it sounded muffled, as though something were on top of it, blocking the receiver.

  And I’m thankful. The sound I heard next was like the one just before the thump, but almost more final – a dull, wet impact. Then squishing-slurping sounds. Throaty groans, seemingly of some kind of pleasure.

  I didn’t know what it meant then. I sure do now.

  I held onto the phone for a good ten minutes, listening in horror before I heard a sound that rocked me nearly off my feet.

  Jesse and Trina screaming. Ear piercing shrieks. A reaction of horror, pure and unadulterated.

  I flipped the phone shut, jammed it into my pocket and bolted out of my house and into my Chevy. I fired it up and sent rocks spinning as I headed for the main road.  I hit the I85 south in ten minutes and looked at my watch. It was 4:00 PM.  My tears didn’t start to fall until the interstate changed to I75 and I pushed it up to 95 miles an hour.

  I did not bother to dial the house again.  The minutes passed like hours.

  *****