The Dead Hunger Series: Books 1 through 5 (146 page)

I realized I was starving.  They also had a full case of bottled water, and the crap wasn’t Zephyrhills.  It was Smartwater.

We found their stash of plastic grocery bags, filled what we could as fast as we could, and went straight out the front door.  I hesitated in the hallway.  They had some sort of thick, wooden, ceremonial spear that looked like it had been made in Africa.  It was roughly six feet long and had an amazing stone tip attached to the end that looked sharp as hell.

I couldn’t imagine leaving it behind, and couldn’t imagine not needing it at some point.  I remembered pushing the gun barrel nearly through the skull of the one creature, so it might not take much to poke through with that weapon.

I hit the unlock button as we hit the front porch, and the flashers flashed and the horn chirped.    If the bastards – and bitches, of course – could hear, then it was game over if that battery didn’t have enough juice to fire the starter.

We got inside, dumped all our shit into the back seat, except the spear, which I leaned between us.  I jammed the key into the lock and turned it.

The engine roared to life.

“Lisa, get us to the church on time,” I said, releasing a huge
breath I had no clue I’d been holding.

*****

I backed the car out fast and threw it into drive.  I used my high aim steering, just as I had done on the bike.  It had me turning the steering wheel in advance of the crap I’d be needing to dodge around.

“Do you still want to go to the church?” asked Lisa.

I looked at her.  “Do you know people there?”

She nodded.  “I do.”

“Do you want to see if they’ve set up any kind of shelter or … I don’t know.  Anything?” I asked.

“Where else can we go?” she asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” I said.  “Lisa, this is everywhere, so …”

Her shoulders slumped as she thought.  “They do have a big food bank.  They had giveaways twice a week, so I’d think they’d be set up, depending on how many people made it there.”

“I hate to say it,” I said, “but there don’t seem to be many like us.”

“Why did mom and dad change when we didn’t?” asked Lisa.

“Why did anyone change?” I asked.  “Natural selection?  I guess it’s like a doctor treating a highly contagious disease and not catching it himself.  It had to happen a lot back in the old days, before hazmat suits and oxygen masks.”

“I suppose now we have to earn the right to be alive by doing the right thing,” she said.  “So we go to the church.  Either they’ll need our help or we can use theirs.”

I looked at her and forced another smile.  “It’s that awkward moment when you first have to choose between feeling guilty for surviving or feeling lucky,” I said.

“Guilty, maybe,” said Lisa.  “Whether we should feel lucky is another story.  Kind of depends on what happens from here.   How much gas is in it?”

I looked, then looked at her.  “How far is the church?”

“About five miles.”

“We’ll make it,” I said.

We got to the church.  It was nice for a while, and we met three women we would come to know pretty well over the next few months,
Vikki, Victoria and Kimberly.  We met many others for the first time, too.  We also met a shitload of zombies, but we’d been there for a while before that all went down.

I’d recount it all for you, but this is where we were finally discovered by the group that would become our family.  Flex
Sheridan, Gem Cardoza, Hemp Chatsworth and Charlie Sanders. 

My family.  All that’s left, except maybe Uncle Bug.  Brett Ulrich Gammon might still be out there in his self-made fortress, likely running his own mini-country there in northern
California by now.

That church was where we first learned of the new defense system called urushiol.  The zombie melter,
indeed.

So once they talked us out of that tiny office, and pretty much in the nick of time, you know what’s happened since.  You’d also think that I’d just give up on my uncle and figure he was where he was and if he was alive, then good for him.

You have to remember that Lisa died right in front of me, and I felt powerless to stop it.  And while I didn’t know exactly where my uncle was, I had a good idea that he was as immune to this new apocalypse as I was.

So that’s my story – mine and Lisa’s.  It took a lot longer to tell than the others, but you have to remember that they all found one another pretty fast, and they didn’t cross our paths until
months after the beginning of this apocalypse.

And as I said at the beginning of this, Serena has agreed to come with me.  We’d been through a lot already in
Concord and Shelburne, and in my heart I already knew I loved her.  A month was like a year in this world.  You can see how fast your heart might connect and imprint on someone else’s these days.

It’s happened to us.  I want to be away from Serena as much as Hemp wants to be away from Charlie – as much as Flex wants to be away from Gem and his little boy.

Serena feels the same about me.

We’re still not sure why Nelson wanted to go. 

It might just be that the land of fruits and nuts has drawn one more nut.

Either way, off we go, on the road to
California.

*****

             
Chapter Five             

Late August, 2013:

Serena and I left before dawn.  We had no idea the surprise waiting for us as we made our way outside to hop on the two bikes we’d found at neighboring homes over the past months.  We figured the bikes, both Hondas, would get us to a Harley store eventually, but they definitely weren’t of the comfort level that we would need to travel almost 3,000 miles to Dunsmuir, California.

We found it odd that Hemp wasn’t letting us go into his workshop, but we never knew what he was up to in there anyway, and gave him his privacy.

We sure know now.

It was like Christmas morning.  Serena wore her leathers because she felt safe from road rash and zombie bites in them, and damn, she looked good in them, too.

We both intended to wear helmets, too.  If we could make it all the way to the west coast without laying one of those damned bikes down, it would be a miracle.

Anyway, back to the surprise.  It was kind of ridiculous, walking out to two, 2013 Harley Davidson Sportsters with custom Corbin Fleetliner bags, along with dual touring saddles and matching helmets, both with radio communication setups.

Each hard shell saddlebag was packed with travel pillows, small blankets, non-perishables and water, and Hemp had fabricated a cool little teardrop trailer behind what I assumed was my bike that matched the Harley line for line.  I unclipped the latches and lifted the lid to see that there were two five-gallon fuel cans filled and ready to go inside, along with several pressurized canisters of the urushiol blend, plus several ammunition boxes –  all filled, of course.

And that wasn’t all.

Almost dead center of the handlebars was a modified machine gun, which looked to be at least part Uzi.  Big and deadly, it tucked toward the rider so that it wasn’t in the way, but if you needed it, all you had to do was push it out and it pivoted forward and up and panned with full range from left to right just over the headlight.  When you had to change the magazine, you lifted the stock up and it soft-locked into position for quick mag release, out and in, back down and you were firing again.

I wanted to run back inside and kiss that man.

I turned to Serena.  Up until
that
point we’d both been speechless.  “It’s that awkward moment when you have a really strong desire to kiss a man – even standing by a beautiful woman in a leather cat suit.”

“You
are
a man,” she said.  “Calling this a cat suit.”

“You’re hotter than Julie Newmar,” I said, walking around the small trailer.  “I’ll peel ya outta that thing later.”

“Think the trailer be stable?”

“Hell yes.  Hemp built it.  It’s no wider than the bike, and look at this little hitch.  Awesome.”

“Maybe they should’ve been black,” said Serena.  “Better for night riding.”

“Headlights, though.  Even if they’re deaf they’ll see us.”

“Not so fast,” she said.  She turned the key and the light went on.  “This looks custom.”  She hit a switch, and the headlight and taillights went out.  She hit the switch again, and they went back on.  “Override,” she said, smiling.

“Kissing him.  It’s on my mind again.”

She checked her watch.  “Sweetheart, it’s five o’clock.  I think we’ve admired the rides long enough.  Let’s put them to use.”

We turned on the Bluetooth and our helmets paired.  We could now chat as we rode.  If I had a hard on at that moment, you’re not going to hear about it here.

Talk about awkward moments.

So we hit the road, and we didn’t bother rolling the bikes out of the driveway – they might as well hear us going if they were awake.  I wondered if Hemp heard.  If he did, I’ll bet he smiled.

Our route was planned out.  Dunsmuir was a long ways off, but it all began by hopping on Interstate 26 to Asheville, North Carolina, then into Tennessee.  We’d be passing through Kentucky, Illinois, Missouri, then skirting the border of Kansas into Nebraska.  From there it was Wyoming, Utah, Nevada and finally, into California. 

And yeah, I only know that from looking at a map as I write this.  Recall like that is pretty much a Hemp thing.

As the sun began to rise, we had not yet found a need to use the Uzis.

“It’s pretty right now,” I said.

“Peaceful,” came Serena’s voice in my helmet.  She looked over at me with a clear highway ahead for the time being.  “Trailer’s great.”

“It is,” I said.  “Can’t even really feel it back there.”

We had been keeping it slow.  Unexpected things, either moving or stationary, could be around any corner, and we didn’t feel the need to rush.  We had plenty of time to get to Dunsmuir before winter set in, and if Bug was there, he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Let’s pull over and have some
breakfast,” I said.  She nodded, and we hit a nice shady spot off to the side of the road.  Both of us had on thigh holsters, each holding one of my Walther PPKs.  You
knew
they were coming with me.

The first meals would be the best.  Serena had prepared homemade corn tortillas the day before our departure, and using fresh eggs and meat from our stock of pigs – I say this and I’m wondering why the hell we left – she made a nice, spicy chorizo-kinda thing.  A thermos of hot coffee was in her backpack, and it was just like being at the Hilton’s
breakfast.

We kept our eyes peeled and saw nothing.  Eager to get back on the road, we stood, and a sound met our ears.

My hand went to my gun, as did Serena’s.  We both backed off the highway, which didn’t do a hell of a lot of good because the beautiful Harleys were right there, big as life.

The sound grew louder.  A buzzing.  The buzz turned into a
putt-putt-putt
sound, and as we watched in amazement, here came Nelson Moore over the crest of a hill, barely pushing to the top.  He saw us and a smile spread across his face as he raised his hand in a sweeping wave.

I was shaking my head and Serena’s mouth was turned up into a smile.  He finally made it to us, his dreadlocks entirely gone, just
wispy, tangled, blonde hair down to his lower back, and the skinny bastard still smiling.

He drew to a stop and took off the bike helmet he wore.  “I saw you guys pass me back there.”

“Pass you?” I asked.  “Where were you?”

“About eight miles back,” he said.  “I left way before you guys did.  I mapped it out and everything.  It was all part of my diabolical plan.  I’m going with.”

“No, you’re not,” said Serena.  “Nelson, it could be dangerous.”

“I’ve got Subdudo and my stars, so no worries,” he said.  “You guys might need me.”

“You can’t keep up on that thing,” I said.  “Nelson.  If you wanted to come, you need a bigger bike.  Period.  If you’d have said something, we could’ve done something about it.  Now it’s too late.”

“I’ve had time to think about it while I rode,” he said.  “You guys aren’t going very fast.  I don’t need a gas hog like these.  Most bikes are more energy-efficient than cars, right?  Or maybe I can find a
Nissan Leaf or something.”

I laughed out loud and immediately felt bad.  Hell if I didn’t like this kid a lot.  “How are you going to charge up your Leaf?  Were they making solar versions before the zombies came along?”

“Yeah, right,” he said, chewing his lip.  “I brought weed.”

I looked at Serena and laughed again, shaking my head.  “That is a plus.”

He wore a backpack which I guessed contained maybe another shirt and pair of pants, his weed, stars and not much else.

“Did you bring any provisions?” I asked.

“I brought weed,” he said again, smiling.

“We got that,” said Serena.  “Food?  Water?”

“You guys have that, right?” he asked.  “I can keep up, I swear.  I’ll take care of myself, but I want to go with you.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Why what?” asked Nelson.

There was a sudden rustle in the trees behind Nelson.  We didn’t have line of sight from our positions, but he did.  He calmly reached into his pack, withdrew a brass star, drew his arm back, and flung it, almost with a snap.

As the completely naked, female rotter put her right foot on the pavement from the trees, her vein-riddled arms outstretched toward Nelson, the 3” diameter star buried itself 2-1/2” into the creature’s skull, right between its eyes.

She fell backward, her knees bending in two.  Nelson casually put the kickstand down and went to her, deftly pulling the star from its temporary home.  He had a rag, already stained with blood, in his back pocket.  He pulled it out like an old man with a snot rag, wiped off the star, and tucked it back into his pack.  The rag went into his back pocket again.

“Ha ha!” he said.  “Blew your minds just then, huh?”

“Did you fucking hire her?” I asked, smiling.

He looked serious for a moment.  “No way, Dave.”

“I’m kidding.  Serena?”

She looked at me and nodded.  “He has to ride with me for now.  The scooter stays here.”

“
Okay, we’ll get him his own bike when we see something that will work.”

“You guys rock!” he said.  “But I’ll miss my scooter.”

“You’ll adapt, Nel,” said Serena.  “Hop on.”

He did.

We went.

I was actually happy to have him along, and I wasn’t even sure why.  Then I figured it out.

I liked the skinny kid a lot, and I think it was his innocence that did that.  A world filled with Nelsons would be a pretty entertaining place to live, if not a very productive one.

*****

We got back on the road, and every time I looked over and saw Nelson with that little bicycle helmet on, his blonde hair whipping behind him, I had to smile to myself.  I had been looking forward to lots of alone time to get to know Serena better, but it looked like that idea was out the window.

We pulled into
Knoxville around noon, and we expected trouble.

I couldn’t shake the fact that is was where Lisa and I had been trapped when the Sheridans and Chatsworths had stumbled upon us, and it had been pretty overrun back then as far as I could tell.  Hemp made a list of the approximate populations of each larger city we’d be passing through, and we’d checked
Knoxville on our last rest stop.

The population was around 179,000, so worse case scenario, there were roughly 161,000 zombies living there.

If you can call
that
living.

So far we’d stayed on I40, but now got off at I75 south to head over to
Lovell Road where the Harley shop was located.  If you’re wondering how we pulled that off, it’s only because we were in possession of a handheld GPS, part of the package put together by Hemp.  It was an awesome add, because it also had the points-of-interest feature, and that’s how we found the store.

The Harley shop was almost right there when we got off, and I just hoped it hadn’t been stripped of inventory already.  As soon as we pulled into the parking lot, Serena pointed.

Several rotters, all singles, milled aimlessly about the surrounding streets and sidewalks.  When they saw our movement, their motions became more focused.

We cut the motors and put down the kickstands.  Once our helmets were off, Serena shook her hair out and stared at them, her expression sad, but contemplative.

She said, “Strange how when there’s no single point of interest for them, they just wander around alone.”

“It kinda makes sense,” I said.  “They’ve got no intelligence or logic telling them to do anything more than eat.  No food source, no reason to group.”

“Yeah,” said Nelson, “but if they see us moving and come to check us out, then why don’t they go to each other when they see that movement?”

“Nel, grab a couple of canisters of
urushiol, would you?  You can use that or your stars.”

“Or Subdudo,” he added.

“Sure, if you feel like touching them,” said Serena, her nose wrinkling.  “And that’s a good question, Nelson.  Why don’t they go to each other when they see that movement?”

“Instincts?” I said.  “Maybe they know their own kind by sight, just like a dog seems to know another dog, no matter what the breed.”

“The shit that stays with you after you’re dead,” said Nelson.  “Crazy.  Hold on.”

Nelson walked twenty-five yards to his left and sprayed the
urushiol in a quick blast to a man with one arm and a missing left foot.  Prior to that, the creature had walked toward us in the strangest gait imaginable.  Think of how a woman walks when she loses a heel off her shoe.  Now exaggerate that by like ten.

The zombie’s head quickly dissolved and half his chest melted as he dropped.

“How much WAT-5 have we got?” asked Serena.

“There’s a baggie of it in my bike seat, and I keep one in my pocket for quick access,” I said.  “But I didn’t want to waste it unless we really need it.  All in all, somewhere around twenty-six doses, which should carry us through.”