The Dead Hunger Series: Books 1 through 5 (35 page)

“Wow, Hemp,” said Charlie.  “This is amazing.”

“It is,” he said.  “Okay, next test.  We don’t need the brain for this one.  Not this one, anyway.”

He carried it back outside and put it in the mobile lab.  In seconds he was back carrying a full-faced motorcycle helmet with the sniffer attached to the back, and a folded white coverall.

“Okay.  Who wants to assist?”

“Fuck it.  I will,” I said. 

“You sure, babe?” asked Flex.

“Yes.  I want to make sure it works on my brain.  It’ll give me comfort.”

Flex looked hesitant, but finally waved his hand toward Hemp.  “Be my guest.”

“Okay, Gem.  I need you to go inside and move up slowly to the gurneys with no helmet and no suit.  At five feet, I’ll turn on the fan to move your scent in their direction.  Wait.  I’ve got an idea.”

Hemp ran to the mobile lab and came back with two  thick strips of triple-layered gauze about two feet long.  He went inside and tied them around the eyes of both zombies, ignoring their frenzied response to his close proximity.

“This will be more interesting for all of us,” said Hemp.  “No visual stimulation.  Just scent alone.”

Okay.  They were blindfolded, and I stood five feet away.  “Hit the fan,” I said.

Hemp did.  The moment my scent reached them, the gnashing began and the fingers began twitching.  The unused nostrils flared, but for what I still hadn’t been able to figure out.

“They know I’m here,” I said into my walkie talkie.

“They do,” agreed Flex.

“Okay,” Hemp said, turning off the fan using a switch on the outside of the lab wall.  “Now move in to within a foot in front of them.  Then just breathe normally.”

“Yeah, right,” I said.  “Normal breathing in the presence of zombies.”

“You know what I mean.  Just do your best.”

I did.  This time they almost went as crazy as when the raw brain was right there.

“Okay, then.  Now the biggie,” said Hemp.  “Come back out.”

I was fucking happy to, and almost sorry I’d agreed to be the brain scent guinea pig.  I came back out.

“Put this suit on, please Gem.”

He handed me the paper-like suit and I stepped into it, pulling the bottom over my shoes and finally zipping it up to my neck. 

“Doesn’t breathe much, does it?” I asked.

“By design,” said Hemp.  He lifted the full-face BSN helmet and pressed it down over my head.  The foam lining completely encased my head, quite snug.  He then put a thick foam strip around my neck sealing the lower gaps, and used a Velcro strap to make it snug but wearable without choking me.

“The power button is on the lower right ear flap,” said Hemp.  “I want you to go back in and stand there just like you did before putting it on.”

I did.  Same response.  Frenzied zombies lookin’ for a meal.  I shuddered.  So did the creatures in front of me.

Both of them, without seeing me, strained at their leather straps, their fingers working, their almost opaque skin seeming to ripple over the dead meat that lay beneath it.  I stood there staring at them struggling to remember they once could’ve been my neighbors or friends. 

The female’s breasts sagged beneath the thin material of her tattered, bloodstained blouse.  With some disgust, throwing off my efforts to remember who they once were, I noticed that her nipples seemed to grow partially erect beneath the material.  Her black teeth gnashed and the tongue, nearly as black, seemed to have a life of its own. Both of their nostrils flared wide.  I felt, briefly, like I would get sick if I looked at them any longer.  Oh, man – Hemp would be pissed if I barfed in his new device.

I turned toward the camera, and had they been able to see my face beneath this helmet, they might have seen pleading.  I really didn’t want to see anything else, but I’d committed at this point.

“Okay, Gem,” said Hemp.  “Hit the power button by pushing it once.”

I reached up and felt around for the power button.  My searching fingers found it and I tapped it one time.  I heard the low whir of a fan.

The zombies fell still. 

“Hold your breath and move your head to within six inches, Gem.”

I looked at Hemp like he was fucking nuts.  Six inches?  I didn’t want to be within six feet, much less six inches.  I glared at the camera, but followed his instructions.

Pure silence.  No gnashing. 

“I don’t really want to get any closer,” I said.

“You don’t need to.  My BSN is a success,” said Hemp, a touch of pride in his voice.

Hemp opened the door and came back inside with the others.  I moved back toward the door and Flex put his arm around me.

“Good job, babe,” he said.  “Ballsy.”

Removing the neck strap and helmet, I looked at him.

“Hey, if you can get hit by the ruby red knockout mist, then I suppose I can play zombie bait for a while.”

He laughed and went to help Hemp pivot the tables back to the prone position and cover them with sheets.

He turned and nodded to us, and we all left the lab.  Hemp locked it behind us.

“I believe that if we use these helmets in conjunction with a full body suit, such as a Tivek, we’ll be all but invisible to them, even if they can smell actual flesh and not just the brain matter when they’re freshly fed.”

“Do you have any more of those suits?” asked Flex.

“I do – standard operating equipment in most labs.  Luckily my friend Max thought to grab a case of fifty.”

“I miss that man,” said Charlie.  “He was a cool guy.”

Cynthia nodded agreement.  “I can’t tell you guys how many times he brought me back down when I was in danger of losing my mind.  He kept reminding me I had to be strong for Taylor.  He was right.”

“You’ve all got Max nailed,” said Hemp, smiling sadly.  “I knew him for years and he was an extraordinary man.”

CHAPTER
TEN

The next days were slow compared to what we’d already been through, and I can’t say I didn’t welcome it.  I got to know Charlie a bit better over that time, and Cynthia showed me just what a great mother she was by holding classes with the girls.  They were eager to learn, and her early experience as a grade school teacher showed.

She’d been working as a second grade teacher when layoffs put her out of work.  After nearly a year, she was able, through the referral of a friend who had since become a zombie herself, to secure a position as a high-level executive assistant within the CDC.

In the days we’d been here, she put together excellent lesson plans using a manual typewriter Bill had in the office.  The three R’s were represented, and she asked me if I’d hold art classes with the girls – something I was more than happy to do.  Together, we occupied Trina and Taylor with things other than video games, television and iPods, the typical spoils of the American child.

It gave me a great feeling, knowing these children were eager to learn and getting smarter and more curious.

It gave me great hope for the future, though I had no idea how that future would play out for any of us.

*****

We were going stir crazy.  Stir-fucking-crazy, and there’s not any other definitive way to put it.

The BSN work Hemp was doing proved to be entirely successful.  He’d made up four fully operational helmets and neck seals, and we’d wear them depending on the likelihood of an encounter.  As far as the full-body Tivek suits, they were made of a very strong woven polyethylene, so would not tear easily.  Add some thick latex gloves and we had a pretty good setup.

It had been another two days, and now it was our longest span of time without venturing out into the world.  Five days.

There were things I wanted to do.  I was an artist, and colored pencils were not going to sustain me for long.  I wanted oils, acrylics and good pencils.  I wanted some blank canvases and some poster board, and even some watercolors and paper for the girls.

My head was going to explode if I couldn’t express myself artistically.  I’d been taking it out on Flex during the daytime with a harsh attitude, and at night with some aggressive sex.  I wasn’t entirely confident in the soundproof qualities of our bedroom walls, but I found that I didn’t care much.  I took release where I could get it, and Flexy was my mechanism, one way or the other.

On the fifth day, Hemp rushed in from out back.

“I need you guys,” he said.  “Something extremely interesting is happening.”  He turned and started walking.

We all got up and followed Hemp, who was already at the back door, holding it open.

When we got outside, it was sunny and pretty mild.  Hemp stopped beside the rack with his two Poison Ivy plants and just looked at us.  We looked back at him.

Then we looked at the plants.

One was huge, the leaves almost like an Elephant Ear plant.  Clusters of three-leaf branches that looked nothing like the other Poison Ivy plant.  The other was healthy, but didn’t look like it had been taking steroids.

“This plant is showing significant signs of accelerated growth.   The cause is inexplicable at this point, though I have a theory based on additional phenomena I’ve discovered.”

Flex looked at me, then back at Hemp.  “Why isn’t the other one doing the same thing?”

“The day I got the plants I had finished potting and watering one of them – the larger one – and put it on the bottom rack, closest to the ground.  I was finishing up the other when Cynthia came out and told me Bill was near death.  I’d already watered it, so I just put it on the shelf and followed her in.  The top shelf.”

“I don’t get it,” I said.  “Top shelf or bottom shelf.  What’s the difference?”

Hemp picked up both pots and held them up.  “This is the difference, Gem.”

“So the one closer to the ground went crazy?” said Charlie.

“Exactly,” said Hemp.  “Nuclear crazy.  Ballistic crazy.  But that’s not all.  There’s something even more fascinating.”

“I hope so,” said Flex.  “Because to be honest, those are just two plants that under my care would’ve both died.”

“Brown thumb?” asked Cynthia.

“Really brown,” I said.  “They’re all fake plants at Flex’s old place.”

Hemp started walking toward a puddle on the ground that was once quite large, but evaporation had now reduced it to about three feet in diameter and a couple of inches deep.

“Look closely at the water,” said Hemp.

We all knelt next to the puddle and looked.

“Bugs?” I asked, seeing tiny pinpricks appearing on the surface of the water from end to end.

“Not bugs.  Bubbles,” said Hemp, looking at Flex.

“Air bubbles?” asked Flex.

“No,” said Hemp.  “I’m fairly certain it’s not oxygen.”

“Okay, Hemp,” I said.  “Time to come out with it.  You’re the scientist and we’re the goofs.  You’re Geppetto and we’re the wooden puppets.  Talk to us like we’re four years old.”

“I think it’s a gas.”

“Are you using a beatnik expression, or do you mean you actually think it’s some sort of gas leaking from the ground?” asked Flex.

“The latter,” said Hemp, smiling.  “And whatever this gas is, it might be responsible for the super-growth of the plants.”

“So why wouldn’t both of them be affected?” asked Cynthia.

“Because one was closer to the ground, to the source of the gas.  The smaller of the two was approximately 1.7 meters off the ground, so quite a bit of diffusion took place.”

“English.  How many feet?”

“About five and a half,” said Hemp.  “Enough to allow sufficient mixing with oxygen that the higher plant was not as affected.”

“So can you use one of the sniffers to analyze it and figure out what it is?” Flex asked.

“That’s just it.  I used parts from all the working chemical analysis devices we had to make our BSN helmets.  I need more equipment, and I need the right kind of lab to find it.”

“We do what we gotta do,” I said.  “When?”

“As soon as possible.  Today.  Not only to get the analyzers, but to see if this is happening in other bodies of water.  The bubbles.”

“I need art supplies,” I said.  “Which I admit doesn’t sound as important as this, but if you gentlemen enjoy your balls, then you might want to help me out.  If I don’t get my artistry on I can be a real ball buster.”

Flex laughed.  He actually doubled over laughing.  He continued for about a minute, and soon we were all smiling as we waited for him to stop.  He gained control of himself, took a deep breath and stood up and put his hands on his hips.  He took another huge breath and exhaled, took my face in his hands and kissed me.

“So that’s what the hell’s wrong with you lately,” he said.  “Let’s get the shit for you and her, Hemp.  She’s going to wear me out one way or the other.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Flexy,” I said.  “Some things won’t change all that much.”

“So when are you going?” asked Cynthia, clearly used to being left behind.

“A lean and mean trip.  Charlie, if you don’t mind, just me, Hemp and Gem will go this time.”

“Bullshit,” she said.  “I need to get out of here as much as the next guy.”

“Charlie,” said Hemp.  “Max and Bill are gone.  I don’t like the idea of leaving Trina, Taylor and Cyn here alone.”

Charlie looked at Cynthia and her shoulders sagged.  “I know,” she said.  “No offense, Cyn.  I just wanted to get out.  It’s cool.  I’ll stay.”

Hemp put his arm around Charlie and squeezed her.  “Thanks.  I’ll make it up to you.”

We headed out an hour later.  It was two o’clock, and there was still plenty of daylight left.  Once we put on the new protective gear courtesy of Professor Hemp, we’d look like a biker hazmat crew or Darth Vader clones in white jumpsuits.

The only down side was we hadn’t worked up any communication gear besides the walkies, and because of the intention of the helmets, the ear holes had to be filled in. 

In other words, hearing was a bitch.  If we got separated by any significant distance we’d have to pull our BSNs off to hear each other, unless of course they were screaming, and then the shit would have probably already hit the fan and it would be too late anyway.

As I drove the Crown Vic, I voiced something that had been on my mind.

“So . . . we’re immune to the bug or whatever it is, and I’m assuming that’s a pretty sure thing, right?”

“Well, since you haven’t had me for breakfast yet,” said Hemp, “I’d say you’re correct.”

“Or lunch or dinner, either,” said Flex.  “I agree.”

“Okay,” I said.  “But are we immune to their bites and scratches, too?”

I looked at Hemp in the rear view mirror.  His face was kind of scrunched up and he didn’t answer immediately.

“Hemp?  Did I stump you?”

“No.  The truth is I don’t know and I don’t have any possible way of testing that idea without risking the subject’s life.  It would take a volunteer, and I can tell you now that I wouldn’t accept any of you.”

“Maybe a degenerate drug addict trying to rob and kill us?” I asked.

“Only if he volunteered,” said Hemp.  “Otherwise it sounds too much like Nazi Germany to me.”

“I suppose there’s some comfort in the possibility,” said Flex.  “But you’re right.  I won’t be testing it.”

“Pull over,” said Hemp.

“What, Hemp?”

“There’s a little lake right there.  I want to see something.”

We were about five miles outside of
Birmingham, heading toward a small research lab we’d found in a phone book.  They were directly affiliated with the CDC and Hemp was familiar with the old director, Frank Elliot.  He didn’t have much hope that Frank was one of the survivors, but the facility should have what he needed in the way of chemical analysis equipment, so it was our first stop.

Besides our visit to this lake.

“Should we wear the BSNs?” asked Flex.

We all instinctively looked around, and the area was all trees, brush and not much else.

“Let’s save those batteries for when we’re likely to need them,” answered Hemp.

We got out of the car and walked to the edge of the lake.  The surface looked almost alive.

The closer we got, the more the smell overwhelmed us.  As we drew up to the edge, the reason became apparent.  The dead fish were everywhere.  Floating, sunken and lining the edges of the gradually sloping bank.  The bubbles that had been visible in the puddle back at the steel supply were also visible here, which caused the illusion of the living water.  Every inch danced with popping bubbles.  Not large, but
everywhere
.

“It’s safe to say it’s not oxygen,” said Hemp.  “Whatever is coming up from the ground is some other gas.”

“Is it all over?  Coming out of the ground, too?” asked Flex.  “You think this is the cause of the outbreak?”

“Yes, it is everywhere.  The only reason we can see it is because of the water, but it’s safe to say that where the earth is porous, and that’s almost everywhere, this stuff is coming up.”

“And how is it related to the poison ivy?”

“It’ll be easy to get a sample, but I need the proper equipment.”

I had an idea.  I didn’t know if it would work, but we could get what we needed at Michael’s, and while we were there I could get my art supplies.

“Hemp, I’m just throwing this out off the top of my head,” I said, “but there’s a transmission fluid funnel in the trunk of the Crown Vic.  Saw it the first time I opened it.  It’s plastic, around 18 inches long.  If you fit a balloon over the small end and lower the flared side into the water, would this gas inflate the balloon?”

He stared at me for a second looking thoughtful.  “That’s pretty good thinking, Gem.  That might well work, and it’s much simpler to get than what I had in mind.”

“See why I love this woman?” said Flex, smiling.

“And because the funnel is long,” said Hemp, “I could push it beneath the surface deep enough to create enough pressure that the bubbles would find the balloon’s cavity the path of least resistance.  Yes.  That should do it.”

“Okay, then,” said Flex.  “Let’s get back in the car and do some shopping.  What are we, about a mile from the lab?”

“According to the GPS, yep,” I said.

We got back in the Ford.  We still had nearly three-quarters of a tank of fuel, so we wouldn’t need to make additional stops, though we now had the hand pump in the trunk just in case we found roads blocked and used more fuel than we expected.

In another five minutes we pulled up to the lab, which was inconspicuously located in a four-store strip mall.  There wasn’t a Michael’s or other craft store there, but there was a small party store, and we now knew where to get our balloons.   Hell, the girls would have fun with the leftovers.

This time we did put on our BSN helmets and our Tivek suits.  Hemp was right.  The suits didn’t breathe, and according to him, they would filter out contaminates up to one micron in size.  This meant they would keep particles of the same size trapped within the suits.  Now I didn’t know one micron from shit on a biscuit, but I trusted the hell out of Hemp, and that was good enough for me.