The Dead Hunger Series: Books 1 through 5 (48 page)

“It’s actually a word derived from the Japanese language,” said Hemp.

I stood there listening to this conversation between this fucking bumpkin and our genius, and I was getting impatient.

“Sir, I have to interrupt, but you shot our friend Flex, and we don’t have a lot of time.  Can you help us?  We need some tools.”

“Now just hold on a minute, missy.  You said he was your husband outside, and just now you said he was your friend.  Which is he?  Who’d I shoot.”

“I can’t believe this!” I said.  “He’s my fucking fiance’.  Does that make anything any different?  If he fucking lives he’s going to be my husband, but I can tell you this mister, we’re trying to survive out there and we’re trying to kill these things before they kill us.  We’ve got two little girls out there, ages seven and eight, and we’re doing everything in our power to make sure they see eight and nine!  So do you mind treating us with just a tiny bit of compassion and just fucking help us for Gods’ sake?”

I was shaking, not from fear, but from anger.

The man slowly lowered his gun, resting the butt on the faded wood floor, holding the barrel in one hand.

“I’m sorry, ma’am.”

I fought my tears.  I was exhausted.  I just nodded.

“Everyone I know is dead,” the old man said.  “Either because they got killed by them, or because I killed ‘em.  So excuse me if I’m a little out of sorts.”

“We’re all a little out of sorts,” said Hemp.  “We’re sorry for startling you.”

“I’ve got some questions,” he said.  “Then I’ll give you what you need.  I won’t keep you long.”

Hemp nodded.  “Fair enough.”

“Hank?” I said.

“That’s me.”

“Can I get my gun?  I really don’t feel right without it.  If you’d have been where we’ve been you’d understand.”

“I understand good enough,” he said.  “Y’all go get your weapons.  Go check on your fella, your friend, husband, fiancé if you want to.  I’m sorry.”

“I’m here,” said Flex, standing at the door.  Though the day was cold, his shirt was undone, the padding and heavy gauze that Cynthia dressed his wound with visible beneath it.

“How are you, babe?” I asked.

Flex nodded at me with a smile and turned back to the store owner.  “I’m sorry we surprised you, sir,” he said.  “We’re leaving town soon and there are some things we really need to do before we go – for protection.”

“You alright?” the old man asked.

“I am,” said Flex.  “It was a clean shot.  Thanks for that.”  He walked in without his gun and stopped in front of the man, holding out his hand.

“I’m Flex Sheridan.  You’ve met Gem, Hemp and Charlie, here.”

“Henry Boyer.  Folks ‘round here just call me Hank.”  He took Flex’s hand and shook it.  “And don’t thank me.  I was tryin’ to kill you.  Sorry for that, but I’m just a tad jumpier than normal these days.”

“We all are,” I said.  “Sorry I was shrieking at you just now.”

“What can I do for y’all?”

“Sickles, other hand harvesting tools,” said Hemp.

“Got about four of ‘em in stock.  No demand lately.  Take ‘em.  Back aisle there, by that John Deere sign.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Hemp, walking to where the man indicated.  He carried two in each hand, his gun hanging loose by its strap over his shoulder.

“What’s that for?  What you harvestin’?”

I looked at Hemp, who shot a glance back at me.  We’d just told him a few moments earlier what we needed the sickles for.

I wasn’t all that surprised.  My memory sucked approaching my mid-thirties.  At eighty-something I’d be lucky to remember my name.

“Poison ivy sir,” said Hemp.  “We need to extract the oil from the plants.  It kills the . . . well, the things.”

“Damned zombies is what they are,” Hank said.  “I hear ‘em scrapin’ up against my buildin’ now and then.  So far I ain’t had to shoot ‘em.  They mill around a while then they’re gone again.  They are zombies, ain’t they?”

We all glanced at one another and nodded agreement.

“Yep, pretty much,” said Charlie.  “That’s the conclusion we reached.”

“If you need anything else, take it.  Business is pretty dead these days, and I know what a pun is, so I guess I’m makin’ one.”

“I’m afraid you won’t have anything to help me, Hank.  What I’ve got to build is similar to what you might find at a distillery.  I need to make a large one, though, so the equipment I’ll need might be more likely found at a dairy farm or someplace I can get some large stainless steel containers.”

“Like a moonshine still?” asked Hank, leaning forward.

“Exactly,” said Hemp.  “But instead of whatever you use to make moonshine, it would be the poison ivy leaves.”

“Then you ain’t gotta make shit,” he said.  “You only gotta drive yourself ‘bout a mile from here.”

“What do you mean?” asked Flex.

“My nephew Jimmy’s been makin’ the best moonshine anybody’s seen for miles around for near seven years now,” said Hank.

“Is he alive?” asked Charlie.  “I mean, do you know?”

“He ain’t alive now, and he wasn’t alive when I shot him, neither,” the old man said, his expression fixed.  “I don’t know what he was.  But he was only 28 years old.  Damned shame.”

I knelt down beside the man and put my hand on his arm.  “Would you take us to Jimmy’s house?”

“I ain’t goin’ anywhere,” he said.  “Too old.”

“We’re pretty good at protecting ourselves,” said Flex.  “If you want to come with us, sir, we’d be happy to have you.”

Hank shook his head.  “Nope.  Thanks anyway.  I would like you to put a piece of plywood on that door, though, and screw it in.  Make it so I can still lock it.  I’m good right here.  I’ll draw out a map to get you to Jimmy’s place.”

“I’ll get the door fixed, Flex,” said Hemp.  “Sir, I assume you have a piece of plywood?”

“Up against the wall by the back door.  It’s a little more than a half sheet, so you should only have to do a short cut to make it fit.”

“Very good,” said Hemp.  “Charlie, give me a hand?”

She followed him to the back.

“There’s a Milwaukee rechargeable drill behind the counter here, and a box of screws,” called Hank.  “Should still have a charge.”

The old man looked at me and Flex.  “I’m eighty five right now, and I’ve lived here all my life.  I always planned to die right here.”

“But sir, nothing’s the same as when you made that promise to yourself,” I said, trying to convince him.

“And I appreciate your offer, I really do,” he said.  “But I’ve got two cases of canned beans and plenty of water.  I figure I can live for a good long time on that.  If I run out, I also got this.”

He pulled a .38 caliber Smith & Wesson revolver from his waistband.  “If they get in here, I won’t be around long enough to know what happens.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“So am I,” he said.

“Makes three of us,” said Flex.  “Have you got some paper to draw the map on?  I’m afraid we’ve got to hit the road as soon as your door’s fixed.”

“Understood.  Paper’s by the cash register, along with a pen in that cigar box beside it.”

Flex got the paper for him and he drew a little map, his tongue sticking out of his mouth as he concentrated.  When he was done, he handed it to Flex.

“That right there is a little gravel road.  ‘Bout a quarter mile down this same road here, turn right on it.  Take it ‘bout an eighth mile, then turn left.  You’re gonna come to a pretty decent creek and follow alongside it the rest of the way and you’ll see Jimmy’s cabin.  Still’s inside.”

Hemp and Charlie had the board fitted against the door, and while it could’ve used cutting, they weren’t going for esthetics, and still fit beneath the ceiling.  Hemp pressed the wood hard to the door and Charlie used the powerful driver-drill to secure it to the frame with the self-tapping screws. 

When they were done, Hemp turned to us.  “It’s not my best work, but it’s secure,” he said.

“Speak for yourself,” said Charlie.  “Those screws were applied with all the anger and frustration I got in me.  It’s
my
best work.”

“I stand corrected,” said Hemp.

“We’ve got the map, Hemp.  I guess it’s the cemetery next.”

“I’ll keep an eye out on the way,” said Hemp.  “I’d rather avoid that spot if we can.”

“Please do,” I said.

“Hank, are you sure you won’t come with us?  You’re absolutely welcome to come along,” said Hemp.

Hank sighed and shook his head, the rifle cradled in his lap.  “I’m too tired, friend,” said Hank.  “But I’m okay.  I don’t think too much about ‘em until they show up.”

“It’s easier that way,” I said.  “But we’ve stayed put long enough and we figure this world isn’t going to fix itself.  Not this time.”

I knelt down beside Hank and took his hand in mine, holding it gently.  I missed old people.  Hank was older than my Uncle Rogelio, but I could tell he had a good heart.

“You can see Flex is going to be fine,” I said.  “Sorry for yelling at you earlier.  I can be a bitch sometimes.”

“I’m quick to forgive,” he said.  “So long as you are.”

I leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.  When I pulled back, his eyes glistened.

“I don’t think anyone’s kissed me in years,” he said.  “It’s nice.”

“If you come with, there’s more of those kisses,” I said, smiling.

Hank shook his head again.  “Temptin’ though it is, I’m pretty set in my ways.  Y’all be careful.  Kill ‘em before they get you.”

“That’s the plan,” said Charlie.  She walked to Hank and kissed him on the cheek, too.   Then she leaned over and hugged him.

“You folks are really testing my willpower,” he said.  “Now get out of here.  I’ll lock up when you go.”

Hemp and Flex said their good byes to Hank and we walked back outside, each grasping one sickle and our weapons.

Once outside, I knocked twice on the door and waited until Hank turned the deadbolt.  Charlie tried the door by jerking it hard back and forth, and it held fine.

“He’s good,” she said. 

As we walked back to the motorhome, a gunshot rang out.  It came from inside the store.

“Oh, my God,” I said.

Flex pulled me into his arms and held me.

“Did he –” started Charlie.

“I think so,” said Hemp.  “I suppose he felt he’d had a good enough life that he didn’t want to have it end horribly.”

When I pulled away again, I saw Hemp holding Charlie, and her face was wet with tears.

“Should we go back inside and see about him?” asked Hemp, his voice a near whisper.

Flex shook his head.  “No.  Let’s respect his privacy.  At least they can’t get to him in there if we don’t break the lock.”

Flex pulled the door to the motorhome open and we all went inside.  Cynthia saw the looks on our faces, looked at the girls and asked no questions.  She knew we’d talk about it later.  She was intuitive like that, and read all of us very well.

And we appreciated it.

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

We rolled down the highway, the roads as clear as the last time we’d passed through.  The motorhome had no issues getting through, and the turns were all wide enough that the trailer wasn’t a hindrance, either.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Hank.  Despite his shooting Flex, which is what I would’ve done myself had someone tried to crash my safe haven, I’d become immediately attached to him.  I’d always loved my older relatives; the stories they’d tell, the way every wrinkle on their faces told me just a bit about their lives and the difficulties they’d faced in the years long before some doctor slapped my ass and declared me born to this earth.

I may sound full of shit, but I missed him.  I’d known him less than forty minutes and I really missed him.  I hated that he was dead.  The world needed as many Hank Boyers as it could get right now.  And Uncle Rogelios, and Aunt Annas and of course, more Max Romeros.

Hemp was driving, and suddenly pulled the lab to a stop.  “There,” he said, pointing.  “See?”

His finger pointed to a treelike, but it wasn’t the trees he meant.  The field in front of the treelike was lush with green, three-leafed plants.  They were enormous.

“That’s them, guys.  No cemetery for us today,” said Hemp.

“I’m not going to be any good swinging a sickle,” said Flex, indicating to his shoulder.  “But I can be a lookout.  Cyn?  Can you do it?”

Cynthia’s eyes actually brightened.  “Me?  Sure.  Absolutely.  I think I can swing a sickle.”

“Everybody get some long sleeves on,” said Hemp.  “Don’t expose yourself any more than necessary.”

I looked at Hemp.  “Why?  If we’re immune, then why do we need to worry?”

Hemp looked like he was hiding something.  I saw his mind working as he considered his answer.

“Hemp?” asked Flex.

“There’s something I didn’t mention.  It’s rare, but it happens.”

Now we all stared at him.

“What, Hemp?” asked Charlie.

“The immunity to urushiol sometimes goes away,” he said.  “One can be immune to it the first ten times they come in contact with it, and on the eleventh time, it affects them.”

“And what the hell does that mean?” I asked.  “We could catch this thing anyway?”

“I simply don’t know,” said Hemp.  “There is a possibility that if you ever had an immunity to urushiol, your immunity to the effects of the gas is permanent.  Even if you lose your immunity to the plant oils.”

“But there’s a chance it isn’t permanent, too,” Flex said.

Hemp nodded.  “As I said, it’s an unknown.  But guys, it doesn’t change anything we’ve got to do, because it’s not something we can control.  We proceed as we have been, but we take precautions so we don’t unnecessarily contract the rash.”

“Aye, aye,” said Charlie, with a mock salute.  “I’ll just add that to the list of shit that’s already on my mind.”

Flex pulled a lawn chair from the lower storage hatch of the converted motorhome and using his good arm, tossed it on top of the rig.  He opened the double doors on the trailer so we could toss the plants in.  With his gun slung over his shoulder, he climbed the rear ladder, unfolded the chair and plopped down.

“Lookin’ a little comfortable up there,” I called. 

He had his Daewoo across his knee, and held it up with his right hand.

“I’m just hoping I don’t have to shoot this thing,” he called back.  “Shit’s gonna hurt.”

“Teach you to kick a guy’s door in,” I said.

We got to the middle of the field, and Hemp turned to address his laborers.

“Stems, leaves, all of it is good, because the oil’s in all parts of the plant.  Cut as low to the stalk as possible.”

“Sounds good, professor,” said Cynthia.  “Hey, Gem.  Is this what it’s like to be Amish?”

“Don’t ask me,” I laughed.  “I’m like the anti-Amish, I think.  Automation’s how I kick.”  I swung my sickle and cut through the lower third of two plants.

We chopped and swung for nearly an hour.  At one point, Hemp stopped and looked around the field, surveying the downed crops.

“You about done?” called Flex.  “Looks like you’ve got half the field chopped down and it’s boring up here.”

“Hold your big, John Wayne horses,” yelled Hemp, smiling.  “We’ve got the worse detail here.”

“Indeed you do, brother!” said Flex.  “Should’ve brought my iPad.  I could be playing Words with Zombies right now.”

Cynthia, Charlie and I laughed.  Hemp shrugged.  His usual, “I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about,” shrug.  And the funny part was, he really didn’t have a clue.

“I think we have enough,” said Hemp.  “Let’s start gathering and get it tossed into the trailer.”

We all dropped our sickles and started scooping.  Our main harvest area was only fifteen yards or so from the trailer, so it didn’t take long to toss it all in inside.  And there was a lot of it.  By the time we finished, we had to push the foliage back with the doors to close them, and even then, some stray pieces hung out.

“Gonna be enough, Hemp?” said Flex from above.

Hemp looked up at him, shielding his eyes from the sun.  “Should be good for a start.  I may have to figure out a way to emulsify the oil in the water, but yeah, depending on the size of the still and the way it’s set up, we should be able to extract a decent amount of oil.”

Flex folded his chair and dropped it down to Hemp, who caught it and tucked it back into the storage compartment.

“Bring down the gimp!” I shouted, in reference to one of my favorite Tarantino movies, Pulp Fiction.  I briefly considered the possibility that Quentin was very likely a zombie now, or dead himself.  Was that irony?  Probably.

“Very funny,” said Flex, who also loved the movie.  “You won’t catch me in a leather body suit unless Hemp here says I need it for protection.”

“I’ll have to talk to Hemp about that then,” I said, smiling.  Yeah. Flexy in a leather suit.  What a sight that would be.

Flex started down the ladder, and I could see him hesitating as he went to grab each rung.  Pride wouldn’t allow him to groan at the pain he was feeling, but I knew him too well.  He was in a bit of agony. 

When he got down, I said, “Let’s get some Tylenol in you, at least.  I’m guessing that’s your first bullet wound.”

“Yeah,” he said.  “Not something electricians have to worry about.”

We loaded back inside and discovered that Cynthia had made burritos with canned beans, tomatoes and chili, and the interior of the coach smelled amazing.  I didn’t bother asking her how she learned how to make homemade flour tortillas, but she’d taken advantage of the additional supplies we’d stocked inside the mobile lab.

Despite our watering mouths, we decided we’d drive the short distance to the cabin before eating lunch. 

The drive leading from the gravel road to the cabin was only marked by a faded wood sign that said “JB,” about six inches by six inches.  Hemp eased the coach and trailer right at the sign and drove down the leaf-covered, unpaved drive about a hundred and fifty feet back, hidden by a canopy of trees. There was a nice turnaround at the end, and Hemp stopped in front of the cabin and put the motorhome in park.  He pivoted the captain’s chair around and smiled.

“I’m hungry.”

We all were.  There was still plenty of water in the storage tanks of the motor home, so we washed the sticky urushiol residue off of any exposed skin and sat down for a meal that went down fast.  I’m pretty sure we were all hyperventilating when we were done, we’d wolfed it down so quickly.

“That was some good shit, Auntie Cyn,” said Trina.  “Really yummy.”

Whenever Trina used her newfound verbal freedom with Cynthia I always cringed.  If Taylor wasn’t around I couldn’t suppress a smile, but when Cynthia’s daughter was within earshot, I knew it bugged her.

“Yeah, mommy,” said
Taylor, throwing Trina a jealous glance. “That was the best shit I’ve had in a long time, too.”

“
Taylor!” scolded Cynthia.

“She said it first!”

“And that doesn’t mean you can,” she said.

Taylor
crossed her arms in defiance, but didn’t argue further.

I think my face was about as red as it could get.  “Sorry, Cyn.”  I looked at Trina.  “I’ve asked her to refrain around
Taylor.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, smiling. “But that meal can be a staple as long as the canned goods hold.  If we have to start growing our own tomatoes and beans, and slaughtering our own cattle, then I can’t make any promises.”

When we were done, we looked through the windows and checked out the area around the small house. Some old barrels that appeared to be well cured were stacked outside the small cabin.  The door to the place stood ajar, and no alarming noises or movement came either from the cabin or the surrounding woods.

“We know why we’re here, folks,” said Hemp.  “Who wants to have a look at the still with me?”

“Let’s just make sure it’s clear and we can all go in,” said Charlie.  “Shut the door once we’re inside, and Cyn can sit with the girls in the front room and keep an eye on the woods.”

“Fair enough,” said Hemp.  “We’re off.”

We got outside and Hemp looked at the roofline of the building.  His eyes went to a spinning vent cap.

“Looks like the back right corner – that’s a hell of a vent pipe coming off there.”

The nearest driveway we’d passed was about a half mile further up the road, and there weren’t any other drives off the main road we came in on.  In this world, the farther the zombies had to shuffle to get someplace, the better for us.

We all had our headlamps on, and carried our automatics in kill position as we cleared the building.  No dead bodies, no zombies.  We’d had a good streak of luck going, but all that did was make us wonder when the fuck we were going to run into a good nest of them.  Or gaggle.  Or murder.  I wasn’t sure what you called a bunch of zombies, and if George Romero hadn’t invented it, then we were probably free to do so.

Murder works.  And it goes both ways.  Them as a group; us as a method of remaining alive.

Hemp pushed open the door in the back rear corner and whistled.  “Now this is a still.  Very professionally built.”

He walked in and started inspecting the configuration. 

“This tank is essentially the cooking tank.”  He tapped the stainless steel tank and it echoed back, a hollow metallic sound.

“Seems to be between batches,” he said.  “That’s good.  This big reservoir is where the poison ivy will be packed inside a basket, which is probably inside this tank.  This conical shaped hood comes off by unscrewing these six pivoting clamps.  After we pack the container with the ivy, I’ll pour about four inches of water in the bottom.  Then we heat it.”

“How’s it heated?” I asked. 

Flex leaned behind it and found the propane tank.  “Got a full tank,” he said.  “Big propane burner beneath the pot.”

“Excellent,” said Hemp, continuing his lesson.  “The water should come to a boil pretty quickly with that burner, and as it vaporizes and travels up through the plant matter, the oil condenses with the water and travels through this braided line, and drips down this column here.”  He ran his finger along the lines and tanks. 

“So when all is said and done, we’ll have some pure oil, once separated, and some urushiol hydrosol, which is essentially a colloidal suspension, which will work as well as the pure oil for our purposes.”

“Colloi what?” Charlie asked.

“Just oil suspended in water, which is also excellent for our needs.  Unclamp that lid, would you, Flex?  Guys, we won’t need to shred the plant matter, but we are going to need to pack it in here as tightly as possible.  I want the steam to have a tough time getting through it.  The tighter the better.”

Flex flipped the pivots and lifted the lid off.  Hemp and I grabbed the large basket inside by the handle and lifted it out.  It was about 30 inches in diameter by 2 feet high.

“Not a very big basket, Hemp, said Cynthia.  “How long does a batch take?”

Hemp shrugged.  “We’ll know after the first one,” he said.  “But I’m guessing around forty-five minutes to an hour per batch.  Maybe less.”

“I saw a wheelbarrow on the side of the house,” said Flex.  “Babe, let’s go get some plants.”

As I walked alongside Flex, I nudged him.  “I’m not sure, Flexy.  I was thinking about the . . . the thing.”

“About what?”

I looked behind us to be sure we wouldn’t be overheard.  “You know, the baby, and the poison ivy.  If breathing in dust and stuff from this could hurt it.”

“Fuck,” Flex said, “I should’ve thought about it earlier.  I think Cyn can help.  You stay in the front room with Suzi and keep an eye out.  Good call, babe.”

I was relieved.  I didn’t need to do anything to jeopardize the new life growing inside me.  If Hemp was as smart as I figured, he probably knew I was pregnant anyway, and he likely would’ve said something to me when I was picking the stuff if there was a risk.