Dead Hunger II: The Gem Cardoza Chronicle (35 page)

“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’l
l
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.