Dead Hunger II: The Gem Cardoza Chronicle (26 page)

We lay in bed an hour later, Flex the big spoon, me playing the part of the small one.  His arm was over my waist and his fingers unconsciously tickled my stomach.

I felt at peace right then.  I could almost imagine that none of this crap had happened and we were just living the lives we should’ve been living while we were apart.

“Baby,” I said.  “Do you get the feeling we need to keep moving?  Find other people?”

He took a deep breath and let out a sigh.  Flex was a good listener, even stoned.  And he was always a good thinker.

“I do,” he said.  “I get these great ideas and they seem to make sense at the time.  But sitting in this building I get the distinct feeling that things outside here are just getting worse, and if everyone like us did the same thing the world would eventually just end.”

I rolled over and faced him.  “Your ideas were accepted by everyone,” I said.  “And some things seem to make more sense in theory than in reality.  We’re still figuring this thing out, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, we are.  And Hemp is.  He’s going to wait until tomorrow night to test
the
oil on our captives.  So
we’ll be
building the pilots
for all the vehicles
and as much of the saw
blade thrower as we can before dark.  All that should make us safer if we do decide to leave.”

“Safe is good,” I said, stretching my neck up so my lips could meet his.  I kissed him deeply and realized I was horny as hell.

He knew the way my body felt when I got there.  He pushed me onto my back and started kissing my neck.  The gooseflesh was back, and I closed my eyes and let him work his magic.

The old Flexy magic.

His slowly moved his kisses from my neck down to my breasts, my nipples erect beneath his touch.  I arched my back as his lips made their way down my belly and his hands caressed me wherever they went, which, to my enormous pleasure, was everywhere.

As he worked his way south, the candles in the room flickered, and I looked up at the painting of us on the wall above the bed.  I was living it, and more.

Flex used his mouth and tongue to bring me to a climactic pinnacle, and I slapped my hands over my mouth to avoid screaming out as my body shuddered beneath him.

When I was spent, he worked his way back up my body and entered me, his soft lips once again kissing my neck, my ear.  With slow, deep strokes he brought me back to that mountaintop and pulled back on his knees, pushing mine up to my chest.

I knew my man.  I knew exactly where he was, and just as he was almost home, I reached down to work some of Gemmy’s magic with my hands.

Flex wasn’t as successful in keeping it quiet.  He exploded inside me and sounded like a wild boar doing it.  I’d reached the point again and decided to join him.

He collapsed beside me and we both started to laugh.  Just a little at first, then we erupted into near bellows of laughter, and it went on for at least two minutes.

It might have been the pot.  Okay, so it was a bit more than that.  So much for decorum.

I’d type lol, but I’m almost positive that by the time anyone reads this it’ll be a moot expression.

*****

The next morning we got up and ate our breakfast, which was getting pretty lean.  We had plenty of oatmeal, but no butter.  The spray butter was okay, but the more time that passed, the more we realized what we no longer had access to.

The pilot project was first on the list, as Flex had said.  They came out awesome.  If you picture the angled grids on the front of the older steam locomotives and other trains, also called cow catchers, you’ll know what the new grills looked like on all our vehicles. 

The Crown Vic now looked like something out of that old David Carradine movie Death Race 2000, and even the mobile lab looked pretty bad ass right now.  Somehow the crew cab truck accepted the new device without looking any tougher, but it already had the AK-47 mounted on the swivel bracket on top of the cab, so to be fair, it couldn’t look much scarier than it already did.

When these things were done – the parts had been cut in the days before and the welding was all that remained – we began work on Hemp’s saw blade thrower.  I’ll try to describe its design and function as Hemp would like:

It’s double-sided and rectangular, horizontally bowed  top to bottom on both sides for maximum blade coverage.  It’s got four wheels for quick movement, but they retract for stability.

Each side has six rows, accommodating eight 7-1/4” circular type saw blades per row.  The 48 blades per side sit on metal disks with a center, retractable spindle that automatically withdraws to release the blade as the machine is kinetically fired – meaning no power is required to throw them.

The top tier of blades fire out at a height of around five feet, but the angle is adjustable for the distance and flight required for any given situation.  Each tier, as it gets lower to the ground, angles upward ever-so-slightly, ensuring the blades do more than just take out knees and legs.

The tiers don’t all release at once, to prevent blades from colliding mid-air.  Once you pull the release, it starts at the top and only microseconds separate the firing of each tier.  It’s all over in under a second and a half.  Then you’re on to side two.  Side one can then be reloaded in around 30 seconds with practice.

Once the wheels are retracted, it can be easily
swiveled
to allow firing of the other identical side, and allow for reloading of the spent blades.

We have a shitload of blades.  Did I mention that?  Nice wood cutting, big-toothed blades.

It’s powered like that Bow-Flex workout machine, but with a single handle that spring loads and locks in all six tiers.  Because of the horizontal bowing on the front, it has a coverage range of about twenty yards wide at the maximum kill distance of approximately thirty yards.

The coolest part was key to Hemp’s design, and essentially made it lethal and kept the blades flying like  Frisbees. As the center spindle of each blade retracted, spiral grooves on each of them started the blades spinning through the air at an RPM of over 1700 and a forward speed of about 150 miles per hour, or nearly 220 feet per second.  The blades can be retrieved when the battle is over and reused if not tweaked – but a blade traveling at that velocity and RPM and then smacking into skull or bone might, if they could talk, say things like “Go away … leave me.  I’m no good to anyone.” 

And they’d be right, most likely.

Now, Hemp didn’t achieve the initially calculated kill range of 100 feet, but he did come to within ten of that.

I’ll have Hemp take a look at this, but I think I’ve got it pretty well detailed.  Another cool part is it can be set up to fire automatically by tripwire
, some distance away
.  ‘Cause you know, Hemp
loves
his tripwires.

That night, Hemp called all of us to the table.  All the adults, that is.  It was nine o’clock, and we’d already put the girls to bed.  They had been brushing and doing the best two young girls could do with regard to grooming Bunsen and her pups, who were beginning to get quite big and in need of some high-intensity obedience training.  Bunsen did her damndest, but Great Pyrenees are dogs who are raised to work, and these guys
hadn’t
had a good romp in a grassy field since we’d left Flex’s house – and the pups were still too young to do much romping
when they were
there.

Energy level high.   Doggie park needed.

I remember when the worst fears at a dog park were stepping in shit and aggressive dogs.  Now the dogs run in packs, and the owners would be just a bit scarier.

Bunsen had become very attached to Charlie, and she loved the big fur ball right back.  She was a sweet, loyal dog, and being an artist and generally creative girl, I developed an image in my mind I wouldn’t be able to shake until I put it on canvas.

It was Charlie, standing atop a hill, silhouetted against the setting sun, almost like a fantasy comic book character.  Her petite body is accented in her pose and she’s wearing an intentionally torn heavy metal T-shirt, short shorts that say DANGEROUS on the ass, and her crossbow is held in her left hand.  The other arm is relaxed, loosely gripping the collar of the regal, white Great Pyrenees that stands beside her, its head reaching above her waist.

Every time I think about that image, I get the urge to paint it.  I’ll just have to add it to my goddamned to-do list, which is already too big.

Sorry about the sidetrack – when I ran off the rails I was telling you that Hemp called us to the table.  We didn’t know what for, but assumed it was with regard to his urushiol testing.

“Hey, guys,” he began.  “This is about
one ounce
of urushiol oil.”

In front of him sat
a rubber-capped tube
with the yellowish oil sealed inside.  “I’ve told you that one micron of this can cause a rash in humans.  Since we last met about this, I’ve put it on Cynthia.  I used some of the early oil extract rather than just the leaves, as I felt it would be a far more conclusive test.  Cyn?”

Cynthia turned her wrists over.  Not even a red mark.  No sign of the dermatitis at all.  “Nada,” she said.  “Zip.”

Hemp looked at us.  “If allergic, the direct oil approach should penetrate and cause a reaction more quickly than contact with the leaves, so I can conclusively say that she is also immune.  At this point I don’t think it’s even necessary to test the girls.  I’ll assume they, too, are in this category.”

“So what does it mean, Hemp?” Flex asked.  “Immunity to urushiol means immunity to the infection that caused all this?  Absolutely?”

Hemp nodded.  “I’m pretty confident, Flex.  If you don’t react to urushiol, you won’t become infected.  But because of the effect to the unembalmed dead, we’ve got much bigger numbers than are even calculable.”

“That’s the bitch,” said Charlie.

“How long does it take for the actual brain to decompose into something that could no longer be reanimated?” I asked.

“Kind of depends on the casket – the quality and air-tightness.  I don’t know how much brain is necessary for the process to happen,” said Hemp.  “Both of the zombies in the lab were alive at the time of the infection.  To test that theory, we’d have to catch and dissect some diggers.”

“Or just do a quick cut-open after we kill them,” said Flex.

“Fuck,” said Charlie.  “And we burned that whole pile of gate crasher diggers.”

“Good point, Charlie.  That would’ve given me a good sampling, and would probably have been all I needed.”

“Okay, back to the oil,” I said.  “Testing it tonight?”

“Yes, I am,” said Hemp.  “As I said before, I don’t know exactly what I’ll do, but I think I’ll focus on the male for now, and see what effect contact with the urushiol oil has, if any.”

“Full strength?” Flex asked.

“Sure, for now.  If it doesn’t do anything then I can put it behind me and move on to something else, but the discovery of what makes us immune is crucial to future tests, not only for me, but for any scientists out there.  Someone else might be able to take this knowledge and make a connection somewhere else that I haven’t.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” said Flex.  “I’m sure that if there’s a connection you haven’t made yet, it’ll come to you at like 3:00 AM one of these mornings.”

“Your confidence in me makes me question your intelligence, Flex,” said Hemp, smiling.

“Look, Chatsworth,” said Flex.  “Your modesty just makes you look like a pompous prick.  Now get in there and blow our minds.  Who’s up for some Farkle while the genius solves all our problems?”

“Fuck Farkle,” said Charlie.  “I’m in the lab with my dude.”

Hemp smiled.  “I’m a dude.”

*****

The following information was passed along to me as it happened by Hemp and Charlie:

In the fixed lab, Hemp sat on a stool and prepared the cotton swab with urushiol.  The male subject had been kept in a prone position on the table, but Hemp again felt it would be better to spin the table upright to better re-create the natural upright position of the creatures.

“Help me spin this table, would you, Charlie?”

Charlie moved to the other side of the gurney and they rolled it away from the one holding the female ghoul.

“One, two, three.”

They pulled the locking latches outward on both sides of the table and pivoted it upright.  The zombie’s head was strapped flat to the table, but it struggled to turn its face toward Charlie as she flipped the table.

“Fuck off,” said Charlie.

“Me?” asked Hemp.

“No, this bastard, with the gnashing and pseudo-sniffing.  I really want these fuckers gone, Hemp.  Sick of looking at them.”

“Calm down,” he said, smiling.  “Soon enough.”

“Should we have our masks on?” asked Charlie.

Hemp shook his head.  “Neither has generated any vapor except once since we got them.  Not enough food intake.”