The Dead Hunger Series: Books 1 through 5 (49 page)

With Suzi on my arm and the girls chattering beside me on a worn-out sofa, I watched through the window as Flex, Cynthia and Charlie used the wheelbarrow and their arms to bring the plants inside.  Before long they had all of it stacked in the far corner of the distilling room with some of it spilling into the hallway.

Hemp continued preparing the equipment, adding the necessary water for the first batch and getting the burner fired up and cranked to full heat.

In forty minutes, Hemp approached me with a glass beaker he’d taken from the mobile lab.  It contained exactly 90 ml of a greenish-yellow oil.

“This is life,” he said.  “For us, that is.  For them, as little as one micron means death.”

“I wouldn’t know a micron if it bit me in the ass,” I said.

“If you take a pencil that has been finely sharpened,” said Hemp.  “And you make a dot on a piece of paper, that dot is approximately 615 microns.  Does that give you some idea?”

“Fuckin’ small.”

“Extremely fuckin’ small.”

“So we have a lot of kill power there,” I said.

“Yes, if we mix it correctly and don’t waste it.  But by the time we’re done with all the batches, we could have up to a gallon of this.  Mixed properly, that gallon could kill 100 zombies a day for five years or more.”

“What were you saying to Flex about emulsification?”

“Well, we all know that oil and water don’t mix.  Even when they’re forced to mix, they ultimately separate again.  We don’t have to be too concerned about it, because the vessels we’ll use to spray the ghouls will be small enough to shake.  We just have to ensure that at least a micron of oil is in each spray, and it would be almost impossible for it not to contain enough.”

“That’s easy.  I like easy.”

Some movement caught my eye low to the ground outside the window.  I leapt to my feet, Suzi pointed outward.

“What is it, Gem?” asked Hemp, alarmed.

“Take a look,” I said in a whisper.

Outside, rooting through the leaves and crunching them underfoot, was a feral hog.  It wasn’t all that big, but it was grey and snorting, but most of all it looked meaty and potentially quite tasty.  It stared directly at the cabin window I stood in front of.

“It has to weigh at least a hundred pounds,” said Hemp.  “Shoot it!”

I hadn’t had any fresh pork in too long.  I did love my pork, and the son-of-a-bitch in front of me looked like a fat plate full of carnitas.

“I got him, Hemp.”

I took one very slow step sideways, hoping the window was dirty enough and the sunlight was glaring enough that the pig didn’t see my motion.

Once I was clear of the window I moved quickly to the door.  Gun readied in my right hand, I eased the door open and looked at the pig.

It was busy rooting through the leaves again.  I declared that it would be this particular pig’s last root session.

I raised Suzi, my barrel pointing straight at its head.  It turned and looked at me with its beady black eyes.

I fired, hitting it cleanly, and down it went like a cheap New Orleans hooker.  My hands went up, and I was whoop-whooping like some primate from Clan of the Cave Bear that just got her first kill.

In a way, I guess it was like that.  My first pig kill, anyway.

Seconds later, everyone was standing at the door looking out at me.  I had run outside and now stood with my foot on the pig’s shoulder (which I would be calling dibs on soon) and held my Uzi high in the air.

There were no cameras available to record my Kodak moment.  “You can thank me later,” I said.  “When you’re telling someone whether you want it limp or crispy.”

Flex found a tag on the pig’s ear.

“Escapee, I guess,” he said.  “That’s good.  It means she ate the right food.  Sometimes the feral pigs can be kind of gamey.”

“Gamey or not, let’s get that sucker field dressed and the meat in that lab fridge and fast,” I said.

“You really should be the one to clean it, babe,” said Flex.  “It’s your kill.”

“I’m not sentimental.  Clean it, Flexy.”

Flex cleaned the pig and we got it well-wrapped in plastic sheeting from the portable workshop.  It was a good amount of protein, and if we could preserve it with enough ice, we’d have fresh meat for days.

Hemp continued processing batch after batch, and by the time we were ready to leave, only a couple hours of daylight remained.  The entire process had taken longer than we anticipated, but nobody wanted to let any of the plants go to waste – not if the oil was as important as Hemp said – and powerful. 

As we pulled out and prepared to turn left to head back to the steel supply, Flex put a hand on Hemp’s shoulder.

“Hemp,” he said.

“Yes, Flex?”

“I want to go back to that Winn-Dixie,” he said.

“Next to Michael’s?” I asked.  “There’s a shitload of zombies there.”

“Yes there are,” said Flex.  “And I want to kill them.”

“They’re locked inside, right?” Charlie said.  “They’re not harming anyone in there are they?”

“It’s wrong to leave any of them moving,” said Flex.  “These things kill us.  At best we’re only 10% of the population, but when you include the dead ones walking around out there, I’m pretty sure it’s more like 6%.  So no, they don’t get a pass with me.  I want them dead.”

“We’ve got daylight left,” said Hemp.  “It will be a good chance to test our solution.  I can inject a couple of CCs of it into the fire sprinkler system, then we can overcharge it with our compressor and pop the heads.”

“You’re the engineer,” said Flex.  “It’s not that far from here, right?”

“Not at all.  Have you there in fifteen minutes.”

And so we went on a zombie snuffing mission.

*****

When we pulled into the parking lot of the Winn-Dixie, we didn’t see the zombie dad with his zombie son.  But there were four other stragglers shuffling around the parking lot, rummaging around in cars occupied by long-stripped cadavers that offered no sustenance for them any longer.  I wasn’t sure whether bone marrow was a tasty treat for them, but so far I hadn’t seen any of them walking around with anything resembling turkey legs.

I was happy to join Charlie on the side-mounted machine guns, though.  We had to be careful not to let any of our rounds fly into the front glass panes of the grocery store.  There were dozens of the creatures in there, and we wanted them contained.

“Pull straight down that middle aisle, Hemp,” Flex said.  “That’s going to line up a couple of rotters on each side.  I’ll tell you when.”

He didn’t have to.  I had them in my sights.  “Girls, put your hands over your ears now.  This is going to be loud.

Flex came behind me and dropped a pair of ear protectors on my head, then slipped a pair over Charlie’s, too.

“Fire away,” he yelled.

And we did. 

“Watch for the shells!” called Charlie.

Behind me I heard Charlie’s gun roar to life, and heard the brass cartridges ricocheting off the interior of the motor home.  As for me, I lined up the first ghoul, a hunched over man who was missing a foot and his pants.

I unintentionally stitched a line of rounds up his spine but adjusted fast and stuck my landing by exploding his head like an overripe watermelon.  His body continued two shuffling steps before tipping in the direction of the missing foot.

The second rotter on my side was, in her previous life, probably a housewife.  I beaded in on her as she turned to look right at the motor home, and it seemed, at me.  I hesitated for only a second, my mind beginning to go where it always seemed to – the thoughts of who this woman used to be in her former life.

Hesitation was dangerous.  I quickly erased my sympathetic thoughts and did what we’d become accustomed to doing.  I blew her head apart with a quick two-round burst of the Daewoo.

She collapsed onto the macadam of the parking lot and I let the gun swing down into his unmanned position.

Cynthia was already sweeping all the brass into a dustpan.

And that was it.  Hemp drove around to the back side of the building and looked for the sprinkler pipe.  It was marked well with a valve above it.   He parked.

“Flex, you in good enough shape to give me a hand?”

Flex nodded.  “Depends.  What do you need?”

“I’m hoping there’s a relief valve at the top of this pipe,” he said.  “The system’s probably lost pressure by now, so if I climb on top of the rig and find what I’m looking for, that’s where I’ll introduce the oil.  While I do that, get the portable compressor out of the rear starboard hatch and get it connected to the 110 volt power.”

With the guys outside, Charlie minded the starboard side gun and I climbed up on top with Suzi.  Hemp raided the toolbox and scurried up the ladder after me.  He’d parked the rig close enough to the building that the port side wasn’t big enough for any abnormals to maneuver.  I watched Hemp with one eye and the driveway in both directions with the other.  No visitors so far.

“Got it!” shouted Hemp, clearly pleased.  He pulled a crescent wrench out of his pocket and began unscrewing a small brass valve.  A small plume of water sprayed out for a moment, then slowed to a drizzle, then stopped.

“Good,” he said.  “System’s still full.  All I need is a quarter inch of air in here, and I can add the oil.”

He waited to make sure the water didn’t surge out again, then removed the small syringe from his shirt pocket.  He put the needle in the hole and quickly pressed in the plunger, emptying it.

“Okay,” he said, screwing the valve back in fast.  “I’ll just be a few minutes, Gem.  Hang tight.”

He went back down the ladder and met Flex at the valve.  The small compressor was on the ground between the rig and the stand pipe.

“Flex, there’s a box of pipe fittings inside the workshop,” said Hemp.  “First drawer on the left in the rear workbench.  Get me a 2” to ¾” bell reducer, female on both ends, would you?”

“Coming up,” Flex said.

Flex got what Hemp needed from the trailer in less than thirty seconds. 

“Okay, undo that quick-disconnect fitting on that compressor hose,” said Hemp.

Flex did it.

“Now thread that ¾” end onto the other end of the hose.  When you’re done, we’ll screw the whole thing on this fitting here.  Once we plug the hose back on the compressor, we’re done.  Ready to blow the system.”

A little Teflon tape and another minute, and it was all set.

“Okay, if you want to watch, and I know I do, get your gun and follow me.  Cynthia and the girls should stay in the motorhome, because we have to leave it here to power the pump.”

“I’ll stay too,” said Charlie.  “Be careful.”

Hemp hesitated.  “You sure, Charlie?”

She nodded, and got out.  I heard her say to Hemp, “I think we leave them alone too much.  I don’t mind.”

“Cynthia,” Hemp called.  “Want to come see how this works?”

Hesitating just a moment, she nodded.  “Sure.”

“Here,” said Charlie, handing her the crossbow.  “Take this.  I hope you don’t need it.”

“Thanks, Charlie.  But I think I’ve got the gun down.  I need more lessons with that I think.”

Charlie handed her one of the MP5s.  “I like a woman who knows her limitations,” she said, smiling.

“Lock it up,” I said.  “I’ve got the walkie on my hip, so if anything goes wrong, just click me.”

Charlie nodded and closed the door.

“Fire that compressor,” said Hemp.  “And run with me.”

We broke into a jog toward the nearest corner of the building.  We could’ve shot one of the exterior access door locks from one of the other small stores, but surprises could await us there.  We didn’t need any of them.  It didn’t take long to round the corner, then come out on the front sidewalk.  Another equal run and we were standing in front of the Winn-Dixie store. 

They were still there, milling about the darkened store in their dead stupor.  Each of their eyes, as they looked up at us, had that reddish-pink glow, but so faint without food.  Even so, at the sight of us the glow seemed to increase to become more visible, perhaps only because of the fading sunlight and the shadows within.

And they congregated.  Staring, like reptiles in a terrarium they watched us hungrily, their fingers clawing at the glass that separated us, their nostrils flaring in an effort to smell us, to taste us with any senses available to them in this horrid existence.

“What’s happening?  Is it working?”

“It will take time for the buildup of pressure to stress the system to a breaking point,” said Hemp.  “Because they’re required to be rated identically, the sprinkler heads should all blow at the same time.”

Two more minutes passed.  Hemp looked at me.

“There must have been more drainage in the lines than I initially believed.  Gem, would you radio Charlie?  Ask her if the compressor is still on.”

I clicked on.  “Charlie, do you read?”

“Yep,” came the reply.  “Is it working?”