The Dead Hunger Series: Books 1 through 5 (51 page)

Apparently Charlie was having her bit of target practice, too, because we saw the turret mounted guns blazing away periodically, with Cynthia taking out the leftovers. 

The down side was that by the time Flex and I rode by, there wasn’t a damn one left to shoot at.  Truth be told, I was cool with that.  Cyn needed the practice, and Charlie got out her aggressions.  I was laughing a bit back at the steel supply because Charlie was discussing the music she wanted to play on the way, and Hemp quickly nixed the Sex Pistols, whom he said made
his
brain explode.  It was pure British blasphemy.   I think he compromised by agreeing to some Metallica and The Clash.

In our truck I had Tom Petty’s Greatest Hits CD from ’93.  Trina and I were rocking to American Girl and Refugee, and my Flexy knew every word to Don’t Do Me Like That.  He wasn’t a bad singer either, but Trina and I already knew that.  This wasn’t our first trip to the Flex Sheridan vocal rodeo.

Music was still salvation while living in the time of zombies.  I wondered if Tom Petty himself was one of the immune.  I sure hoped he was, but I also guessed he wouldn’t be releasing any more music anytime soon.

The road to Moody was more rural than the areas closer to
Birmingham proper, but it seemed there were more of the bloodless freaks around.

“Hemp, what do you make of this?” asked Flex over the radio.

“Not sure, Flex.  Logic says less population, fewer infecteds, but maybe we’ve just been lucky until now.”

Flex looked at me and pushed the button.  “I don’t usually believe in luck these days,” he said.  “But we’ve got our juice, so bring ‘em on.”

“Z-Juice,” said Hemp.  I could hear the smile in his voice.  Hey, he invented the shit, he could call it what he wanted.

“Tractor Supply on the left,” came Hemp’s voice again.  “Pull in behind me, guys.”

Cynthia followed instructions and we pulled in behind her in the Silverado.

Hemp dropped out of the motor home with a chrome cylinder, the hose unclipped.  He’d taken the strap from one of our other weapons and hooked it to the top and bottom, the tank now strapped on his back.  Charlie came out holding her new crossbow and waved.  I waved back.

“C’mon, Flex,” yelled Hemp.  “Can you manage?  These winches are heavy.”

“We need to hire some muscle,” said Flex, rubbing his sore shoulder as he got out of the truck.  “Stand guard, would you?”

“Don’t hurt your shoulder, and let me know if you need more help.  Trina, stay put, okay?  We’ll just be a few minutes.”

I went to get out, and Trina patted my back.

“Can Bunsen come in the car with me?”

“You miss her, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, hold on.”

I got out and went to the mobile lab.  Bunsen stood at the door, her puppies gathered around her.  I was sure they all needed a little outside time, but for now I took Bunsen by her collar and pulled her out.

“You guys stay put for now.  We’ll give you a little run in a few.”

I closed the door and led Bunsen to the Silverado and opened the back door.  She jumped in and planted several wet tongue kisses on her biggest fan.  I closed the door.

Hemp, Flex and Charlie entered the store and I walked up to the Ford as Cynthia rolled down the window.

“Having some fun with that gun, were you?”

Cynthia looked embarrassed.  “Glad that bag’s on there,” she said, indicating to the shell catcher.  “Thing was dancing like a sack full of squirrels.”

“Got extra magazines?”

“Already put one in.  I was just refilling this one.”

I looked in her lap and she had a half-filled magazine in between her legs.

I reached in and lightly pinched her cheek.  “I’m proud of you!”

She smiled.  “So is Taylor.  She said her mom’s a bad-ass.”

I feigned shock.  “And
you
let her talk like that?”

“She did!” shouted
Taylor.  “But only because she likes being called that.”

“Want some Cheez-Its?”

“Are they any good?”

“Taste like the day they were injected with preservatives,” I said.

“Bring us a box,” said Cyn.  “I prefer Goldfish, but that sounds really good right now.”

I turned to head back to the car, and saw a ghoul fifteen feet away.  He was standing beside the Silverado bed, as though he was as shocked to see me as I’d been to see him.

“Fuck!  Roll up your window, Cyn!”

She did.  Fast. 

The creature had some problem with its knee, causing it to slide along the side of the Silverado, and I didn’t want to shoot the truck.  We needed all our windows – the weather was getting colder and we were heading north.

Then I heard a piercing scream. 

The window of the Silverado was open.  As I noticed it, so did the zombie, who turned and grappled inside for my little girl with rotting, reaching arms.

Trina screamed again, a terrifying sound that stabbed my very soul like a thousand daggers.

“Roll up the window, Trina!  Now!” I screamed.

But she had fallen back against the Great Pyrenees, who struggled to get around her.  My heart rat-a-tat-tatted like my Uzi in full automatic mode, and I raced toward the truck.  I couldn’t shoot.  It was too dangerous.

Just then a white, fluffy flash nearly dove out of the truck window, and the zombie was knocked backward, hard.  Bunsen was through the window and on the thing, snarling and biting, her huge mouth clamping down on the rotter’s face as they tumbled on the pavement in a mish-mash of rotting skin and fur.

I’d never seen such ferociousness from this normally gentle dog, but in protecting the little girl she’d come to love, all kindness in her nature was forgotten with a vengeance.  Bunsen growled like Cujo as she ripped and tore at the man-creature, its hands pulling at her fur, but unable to escape the huge canine’s vicious attack born of maternal, protective rage.

I ran forward and stomped on the things arm as I yanked Bunsen back by the collar and jammed my gun to the creature’s head.  Bunsen fought me to get at the thing, but in a surge of adrenaline, I yanked her off of her prey, if only briefly.

It was enough.  I fired a two-round burst and the monstrosity fell still, its body going slack.

Bunsen sensed immediately that the threat was over.  She stood back, looking at it briefly, shook her fur as best she could, then stood on her hind feet, her paws on the window of the Silverado as she looked at Trina inside.

While the confrontation took place, Trina had gathered her composure enough to roll the window back up.  I could see her through the glass in hysterics, and my heart went out to her.

I moved to open the door and comfort her, but I didn’t make it.  Four more rotters appeared from around the rear of the truck, and they were by the Silverado’s rear door in mere seconds.

I staggered back, nearly tripping on the dead zombie at my feet, my gun aimed at them, but still I couldn’t fire.  Bunsen growled low and deep, her fur bristling on her hackles like a crazed coyote.  I took her by the collar and pulled her toward Cynthia’s car.  She was covered in gore, so I didn’t dare put her inside with Cynthia and Taylor.

“Stay!  Stay, girl!”  She could be overtaken by three of the things, and I would not let Trina see her dog killed before her eyes.  She’d seen quite enough, thank you very fucking much.

I looked through the car window at Cyn.  Her eyes were wide with panic, and I saw
Taylor was on the floor, no doubt having been told to get her ass down by her mother.

I took a quick glance at the store.  No sign of Hemp, Flex or Charlie, so they must have been deep inside, perhaps running to me now.  Then I heard Cynthia’s muffled screams from inside the car.  I looked at her and saw she was pointing frantically toward the motor home.

Five more had come around the corner of the rig and seen me, quickening their pace as best they could manage.

Some were mangled; one had a obscenely broken arm twisting by only the dead skin that held it on his body.  Another one, a woman, had half her face completely missing, the empty skull socket staring blankly as she shambled toward me.  Their arms out, their feet shuffling faster, they advanced.  I couldn’t go back to the truck and I couldn’t go forward.  They were all too close to our vehicles to fire.

Suddenly, common sense returned to my frantic brain.  I hammered on the window of the Crown Vic with my fist. 

Through the thick glass I screamed “The canister, Cyn!  Give me the canister!”

The window came down.

“I’m sorry, Gem!” she shouted.  She lifted the cylinder off the passenger floorboard and quickly passed it through the window. 

I grabbed it.  The dead walkers were now five feet from my right side, and about ten feet from my left.

“Roll up the window!” I shouted, shaking the extinguisher.  Four feet.  I grabbed the hose and jammed my hand down on the lever, dousing the closest four.  The liquid splashed off their faces and their hands went wild as they staggered forward.

I leapt away from their path of collapse and turned.  The others had closed to within five feet on my other side as I directed a stream of the liquid at their faces.

Dead hits, all. 

One of them stood stock still as his head melted down into his shoulders.  His chest then appeared to literally dissolve, his old beige dress shirt sucking inward as his body mass disappeared.

And they were all down and out.  Muck flowed from the puddle of former zombies, bubbling, foaming, popping and finally just running across the pavement in a thick ooze. 

I stood there in a daze as Hemp, Charlie and Flex came charging out of the store, their eyes wide.

Charlie’s crossbow was up in fire position the moment she saw me.

The horn on the Crown Vic blared.

And then she fired.  The arrow came within four inches of my head and I heard a sick, wet thud just behind me.

“What the fuck, Charlie!” I screamed.

I turned to see what she’d fired at, and my head hit the arrow jutting out of the zombie’s forehead just before it fell backward in a heap.

“He came from under the car!” said Charlie.

I stared at her. “My god,” I muttered. 

The guys were pushing a flatbed cart with two large boxes on it.

“Get back in the car, Gem!  You, too, Charlie!” shouted Flex.

“Bullshit!” I said.  “Get that loaded while we guard you!  Then we’ll get back in the car!”

They hustled the winches to the trailer and indicated for Cynthia to back up a few feet to allow them to open the door.   She did so immediately.  Charlie and I were on alert.

We’d left the Silverado far enough back that she had clearance to move back six feet or so.

Hemp and Flex swung the door open and moved to put the winches in.  There wasn’t room.  The saw blade machine was flush with the rear, and our supplies filled the rest of the space.

“Jesus!”

It was Charlie.  I turned to see what she’d seen.  There were twenty or more rotters coming from around the Tractor Supply building.  Coming faster than we liked. 

“Flex, give me a hand, fast!” shouted Hemp.

Hemp quickly extended the ramp and Flex helped him.  Then he pulled on the blade thrower, starting it down the ramp.

“Let’s get it out, fast, Flex.  Then we’ll spin it around.”

I sprayed them with my Uzi, emptying the magazine in seconds.  Five down, but the rest still mobile.  By the time Charlie exhausted her five arrows, four more of them were down, but another twelve were on the staggering march toward us.

“Flex!” I shouted.  “They’re coming!”

“We’re getting there!” shouted Hemp, as they got the machine down the ramp and spun sideways.  Hemp pulled the spring handles back and reached inside the trailer for a stack of blades. 

“Flex, I’ll get the front.  Load up the rear!”  He gave half the stack to Flex and ran to the front.

They loaded each blade pad as fast as they could.    Now the freaks were within thirty feet and more had joined them.  I had a death grip on the fire extinguisher in case they got close enough to use it.  I could think of nothing but little Trina in the truck, but I couldn’t go to her yet.

“Get behind us!” shouted Hemp. 

Charlie and I ran between the Ford and the trailer, and as we reached a safe zone, Hemp pulled the release lever.

And the blades flew.

Fast.  The lower blades angling up and all of them fanning out, covering a swath forty feet wide or more.  They spun through the air in deadly silence and almost all of them hit their marks.  Heads flipped in the air as blades cut through rotting necks.  Chests were sliced deep and legs were severed.  Brains were ripped in two as the blades performed just as Hemphill Chatsworth, designer extraordinaire, had known they would.

They were all down.  No need to turn the machine and fire off side two.

Hemp looked at us, breathing hard.  “I was going to leave this here,” he said.  “But after seeing that, I’m inclined to keep it.”