Dead Hunger II: The Gem Cardoza Chronicle (19 page)

In other words, hearing was a bitch.  If we got separated by any significant distance we’d have to pull
our BSNs
off to hear
each other
, unless of course they were screaming,
and then the shit
would have probably already hit the fan and it would be
too late anyway.

As I drove the Crown Vic, I voiced something that had been on my mind.

“So . . . we’re immune to the bug or whatever it is, and I’m assuming that’s a pretty sure thing, right?”

“Well, since you haven’t had me for breakfast yet,” said Hemp, “I’d say you’re correct.”

“Or lunch or dinner, either,” said Flex.  “I agree.”

“Okay,” I said.  “But are we
immune
to
their bites and scratches, too?”

I looked at Hemp in the rear view mirror.  His face was kind of scrunched up and he didn’t answer immediately.

“Hemp?  Did I stump you?”

“No.  The truth is I don’t know and I don’t have any possible way of testing that idea without risking the subject’s life.  It would take a volunteer, and I can tell you now that I wouldn’t accept any of you.”

“Maybe a degenerate drug addict trying to rob and kill us?” I asked.

“Only if he volunteered,” said Hemp.  “Otherwise it sounds too much like Nazi Germany to me.”

“I suppose there’s some comfort in the possibility,” said Flex.  “But you’re right.  I
won’t be
testing it.”

“Pull over,” said Hemp.

“What, Hemp?”

“There’s a little lake right there.  I want to see something.”

We were about five miles outside of
Birmingham
, heading toward a small research lab we’d found in a phone book.  They were directly affiliated with the CDC and Hemp was familiar with the old director, Frank Elliot.  He didn’t have much hope that Frank was one of the survivors, but the facility should have what he needed in the way of chemical analysis equipment, so it was our first stop.

Besides our visit to this lake.

“Should we wear the BSNs?” asked Flex.

We all instinctively looked around, and the area was all trees, brush and not much else.

“Let’s save those batteries for when we’re likely to need them,” answered Hemp.

We got out of the car and walked to the edge of the lake.  The surface looked almost alive.

The closer we got, the more the smell overwhelmed us.  As we drew up to the edge, the reason became apparent.  The dead fish were everywhere.  Floating, sunken and lining the edges of the gradually sloping bank.  The bubbles that had been visible in the puddle back at the steel supply were also visible here, which caused the illusion of the living water.  Every inch danced with popping bubbles.  Not large, but
everywhere
.

“It’s safe to say it’s not oxygen,” said Hemp.  “Whatever is coming up from the ground is some other gas.”

“Is it all over?  Coming out of the ground, too?” asked Flex.  “You think this is the cause of the outbreak?”

“Yes, it is everywhere.  The only reason we can see it is because of the water, but it’s safe to say that where the earth is porous, and that’s almost everywhere, this stuff is coming up.”

“And how is it related to the poison ivy?”

“It’ll be easy to get a sample, but I need the proper equipment.”

I had an idea.  I didn’t know if it would work, but we could get
what we needed at
Michael’s, and while we were there I could get my art supplies.

“Hemp, I’m just throwing this out off the top of my head,” I said, “but there’s a
transmission fluid
funnel in the trunk of the Crown Vic.  Saw
it the first time I opened it.  It’s plastic,
around 18 inches long.  If you
fit
a balloon over the small end and
lower
the
flared
side into the water, would
this
gas inflate the balloon?”

He stared at me for a second
looking thoughtful. 
“That’s pretty
good thinking, Gem.
  That
might well work, and it’s much simpler to get
than
what
I had in mind.”

“See why I love this
woman
?” said Flex, smiling.

“And because the funnel is long
,” said Hemp,
“
I could push it beneath the surface deep enough to create enough pressure that the bubbles would find the balloon’s cavity the path of least resistance.  Yes.  That
should
do it.”

“Okay, then,” said Flex.  “Let’s get back in the car and do some shopping.  What are we, about a mile from the lab?”

“According to the GPS, yep,” I said.

We got back in the
Ford
.  We still had nearly three-quarters of a tank of fuel, so we wouldn’t need to make additional stops, though we now had the hand pump in the trunk just in case we found roads blocked and used more fuel than we expected.

In another five minutes we pulled up to the lab, which was inconspicuously located in a four-store strip mall.  There wasn’t a Michael’s or other craft store there, but there was a small party store, and we now knew where to get our balloons.   Hell, the girls would have fun with the leftovers.

This time we did put on our BSN helmets and our Tivek suits.  Hemp was right.  The suits didn’t breathe, and according to him, they would filter out contaminates up to one micron in size.  This meant they would keep particles of the same size trapped within the suits.  Now I didn’t know one micron from shit on a biscuit, but I trusted the hell out of Hemp, and that was good enough for me.

We fitted on our neck straps and got out of the car.  We all strapped on drop leg holsters to accommodate one gun per side, and slid our handguns of choice into them.  Suzi was slung over my shoulder and two 9mm Glocks kept my upper thighs warm and dangerous.

I think Flex might tell you my thighs could be dangerous anyway, but that’s pure speculation.  He’d always made it out alive – at least so far.

Flex chose a pair of Sig Sauer P250 .40 calibers, and Hemp had settled on a couple of Walther P99s, each carrying sixteen 9mm rounds.

Speaking of dangerous, we all looked pretty damned dangerous, which is exactly what we were.  Once everything was on and adjusted, we headed toward the door of the lab.

LMS
Research Labs was located on the corner of the small cluster of stores, and was clearly set up to be inconspicuous.  Just small one-inch letters on the door stated its name, and the glass frontage was heavily tinted.

While Hemp and I kept our eyes out for visitors, both alive and those of the hungrier variety, Flex banged on the door. 

We had this practice because of the same reasons we’d done it at the gun store.  You never know where people are holing up, and we didn’t want to errantly shoot anyone who wasn’t a threat.  We also didn’t want to get shot as we stormed into a building that we hadn’t checked out thoroughly.

Flex’s knock went unanswered.  He tried the door, and to
our
surprise, it was unlocked.  He tapped me on the shoulder and waved me in.  I, in turn, tapped Hemp and we all went inside.  We had zero peripheral vision in these helmets, so it was important that we be aware of our surroundings.  We would normally call out as we entered a building to alert anyone inside of our presence, but the BSN headgear al
so prevented us from doing that with any effectiveness

So we made our way through each room stealthily, Uzi, Daewoo and
Heckler
& Koch held out to take out any freaks who might try to accost us.

None did.

Once we cleared the building, Hemp went back to the lobby and turned the deadbolt on the door.  He removed his helmet, and we followed suit, hitting the power buttons afterward to preserve the precious batteries.

“I need
an
air or gas analyzer,” said Hemp, his normally nice, blonde hair mussed like crazy from the helmet.  He swept it out of his eyes, and it fell right back down.

“Because this agency works directly with the CDC, they’ll have what we need.  I
passed
the main lab in the first room on the right.”

We followed Hemp in.  There was no sense in splitting up because only
he
would recognize what we needed, so we just tagged along behind him, our guns still at ready just in case.

Hemp stopped at one machine on a rolling cart. 

“Here,” he said.  “It’s perfect.  That laptop there,” he said, pointing at an IBM machine closed on the cart, “will have a full database of all known chemical compounds, as well as the settings to convert the machine for whatever analysis we need.  I’m hoping it has a setting for all of the above, since we don’t have any idea what we’re looking for.”

“It’s pretty big,” said Flex.  “Glad it’s on a cart.”

“We’ll have to take it off there to get it in the car,” I added.  “Is
that all we need?”

Hemp took a slow walk around the lab.  He found some more small chemical sniffers like the ones we used to make our BSN devices and added them to the cart.  Three in all.

“Yep.  Let’s load it up.  Thank you, AirTech.  They’re making one of the most advanced machines in the world right now, and we’re going to have one.”

“Bitchen,” said Flex. 

Hemp stared at him.  “I still have no idea what that means,” he said, his British accent crisp.

“It’s the same as fuckin’ A,” I said.

“Or cool,” said Flex.

“Okay, got it,” said Hemp, laughing.  He was in a good mood now.   So was I, now that we had the machine he needed.

After loading up, the next stop would be the party store next door, then the art supply.  We’d found a Michael’s store that we would be able to get to taking the same route we’d taken on the way here with just a one-mile detour.

Okay.  I know what you are thinking.  I explained my need to express myself, and tried to make you understand that it’s not just about me.  I know who I am, and I know that without this outlet I might soon have gone off the deep end.

I can tell you that if we pulled up to the craft store and found it overrun with zombies that I’d be the first to say fuck it, and that would be very bad for me mentally.  When I’m not working or creating, guess where my mind goes?  Guess where everyone’s mind naturally turns in this time of flesh and brain-eating zombies walking the earth?

It goes to the flesh and brain-eating zombies, that’s where.  And
that’s an awfully crappy and
mentally draining place to exist.
 
It’s all about distractions and beauty.  Beauty has a way of bringing about peace of mind.  Distractions bring about diversion of thought.
 
I needed both.  So did everyone else.  Okay, everyone but Hemp, who thrived on the entire situation, much to the relief of all of us.  As long as he focused on this problem of the dead walking around hungry as hell, we knew progress was being made.

So it was my intention to create some beautiful fucking things for people to look at; things that did not exist within the steel supply building. 
I wanted to create s
omething to provide warmth and comfort.  I’d do some
silly
stuff for
the kids and
some thought-provoking work for the adults.

And for the wall in our room, I might just do a self-portrait of me and Flex.  It was already in my head and I just needed to get it onto canvas.

We stepped outside, rolling the cart with the machine on it to the Crown Vic.  I hit the unlock button and then popped the trunk.  The machine was maybe 20” x 30” and would fit in there just fine.

But as all three of us got to the sidewalk, something disturbing presented itself.

Or, in this case, presented themselves.

It was a man and a boy.  Rather, it used to be a man and a boy.  Now, effectively, they were more accurately described as a big zombie and a little zombie.

We stopped.  We’d put our helmets back on and gotten everything sealed up before we came outside, and when we saw them we all instinctively froze in our steps.

There was no increase in speed or change in their demeanor.  No moaning, gnashing or other evidence they recognized us for what we were to them.

I don’t need to say it.

The helmets prevented us from saying anything.  The brain-eaters drew closer.  They were within twenty-five feet of us now.

Hemp held his MP5 in his right hand
.  With his left, held close to his body with the palm open and facing downward, he lowered it two inches.
 

The instruction was clear to both me and Flex:
Don’t move.

Fifteen feet.   Ten feet.  And then the two were right beside us.   I looked at them through my face shield and what my old coun
try friend used to call
chillywivers
hit my neck and spine.