The Dead Hunger Series: Books 1 through 5 (53 page)

The zombies were fifteen feet away now.  Charlie aimed right, I aimed left, and Flexy was poised to take out the ones in the middle.  Hemp stood in back awaiting his moment.

The three of us squeezed the chrome valve handles almost at the exact same time, sending streams of deadly oil and water toward the advancing mutants, but not before a cloud of vapor puffed into the air around them.  The melting of their insides began instantly, and the devastating affect to the deaders was the same as before.  Bodies melted into themselves, a pop-hissing sound like a blown pressure relief valve as reanimated organs melted like flesh immersed in pure lye.

As the zombies dissolved, their filthy ooze ran across the floor toward our feet.  We instinctively jumped up on the faded wooden pews, letting the sludge run beneath.  With all of our attackers taken out, we wondered why Hemp hadn’t eliminated the four coming at him yet.

His eyes on the zombies, unwavering, he said to us: “I’ve got to try an experiment.  Watch and see if you notice anything in their demeanor.”

“Baby, their demeanor is fuckin’ hungry, and doesn’t change much,” said Charlie.  “What are we looking for?”

Hemp moved quickly forward until he was three feet from the closest dead walker.  “If I’m right, you’ll see,” he said, raising the hose and spraying the nearest abnormal in the eyes.

Sizzle, pop, hiss, drop.  Down and dead.  Everywhere a drop of the oil and water mix landed on the creature, a hole burned in the thing’s body, and these areas continued to sizzle like bacon frying in a pan.

The three behind the dead zombie hesitated.

They absolutely hesitated
.  As though they now realized the chrome cylinder in Hemp’s hand was a threat.

“See that?” Hemp said.  “They can learn, guys.  The fuckers can learn.”

“I did see that,” I said.

“Me, too,” said Charlie and Flex together.

He moved toward the leader of the remaining three, if that’s what she was.  She wore a mu-mu with a loud Hawaiian print of purple flowers, and one ragged sandal on a foot that appeared to be short over half its toes.  One eye dangled out of its socket, and it appeared someone had ripped out three quarters of her hair, which might have gone to her shoulders when she lived.  She was probably near 250 lbs when alive, but a steady diet of searching for humans to eat and striking out had resulted in sagging skin that itself was torn away in places, and about a 180 lb zombie.

Hemp raised the hose and she actually recoiled.

He sprayed her face.  The two behind her backed off a step as she began to disintegrate. 

We all watched from our safe distance, mesmerized and petrified at the implications.

There must have been a lot of oil in that particular dose, for in an amazing display of biological reaction, her body seemed to melt in on itself like a building being demolished by explosive charges.  I’d seen something similar at the Tractor Supply store.  Her eyes erupted as we’d grown used to, causing Hemp to leap out of the line of spew, then the massive amount of fluid began eating the inside of the thing’s body from the neck on down.

Head imploded into Neck.  Neck into Chest.  Chest melting into the abdomen, and the abdomen melting into the groin area.  When the reanimated freakshow was just a pair of legs, it fell over with a thud and twitched.

This was literally the best zombie killing I’d ever witnessed, including the super creative ends to lives that the wildest Hollywood directors dreamed of.  This beat them all, because it was real and it was dramatic as fuck.

“See them?” Hemp asked, excitedly.  “They’re afraid.”

“I do, Hemp,” I said.  “And I agree.  But would you mind just killing them and filling us in later on what you learned?

Hemp nodded, keeping his eye on the other two zombies.  He moved toward them slowly.  They had completely stopped, and never attempted to move closer to Hemp or us since.

As Hemp advanced, the vapor suddenly gushed, their one known defense and offense mechanism besides their hands and teeth.  Hemp jammed the hose in their faces and squeezed the handle, dispatching the last two reanimated monsters in the old church.

Their bodies deflating into rivulets of muck, the slime ran along the floor, mixing with the vile fluids of the others.  Zombie clothing nearly flattened, and the danger to me and my family of friends was eliminated.

At least for now.

*****

Flex got on the radio to Cynthia.  “Cyn, pull the car right up on the front of the lawn.  We’re going to need your help here.”

“Got it, Flex.”

The Crown Vic started moving, and Cynthia pulled the car up on the grass, spinning it around and backing it straight up to the church.    I appreciated the fact that she was being considerate of the girls, who would have to turn around and look out the rear window to actually see the carnage of melting bodies.

“Flex, you stand guard,” I said.  “You need to rest that shoulder so it has time to heal.”

He looked at me, appeared to be considering whether to do what I asked, then nodded.  It was smart.  It wasn’t unlike me to withhold sex if he pissed me off, plus now I could threaten to name the kid Elvin or Lenore. 

They’re just two of the most discontinued names I could come up with at the spur of the moment.

“Charlie, grab your crossbow and keep an eye out, too.  Me and Cyn can take care of these folks.”

“I’m going back inside,” said Flex.  “Charlie, you got this?  I need to check for more survivors.”

“No problem, but take the radio.”

He did.  Cyn and I lifted the boy underneath his arms and dragged him to the wall of the building, leaning him there.  She took his pulse.

“His heartbeat’s strong,” she said.  “And his color’s not bad, huh?”

“No,” I said.  “He looks good.  Let’s get the others out of that pile.”

We lifted two more women from the mound, and one-by-one, we got them next to the boy.  Both were easy to move, because like the boy, they were also extremely thin.

“I wonder when they ate last,” I asked.

I wasn’t sure what you called this particular man of God, but he was the preacher to me.  We approached him and dragged him over beside the others.  None of them had awoken, and it was unlikely they would.  We had enough experience with the gas that we knew they wouldn’t be ready to stir for hours yet.

I started to worry about Flex.    After we got two more people against the building, we had a total of seven.  There had originally been ten, but three were dead.  We didn’t take the time to determine the cause, but worried about the living instead.  We did, however, take the time to put bullets in the brains of the three.  We’d been down that road and the risk was too great not to.

We were thankful the survivors were unaware of our actions.  They might not realize how seriously tentative death had become.

So as it stood, we had the boy, three women, the preacher, and two other men.

There was nobody over what looked to be about fifty years old.  I didn’t want to think of what happened to the other, older members of the community or the congregation.

“Flexy,” I said on the radio.  “Where the hell are you?”

“There’s an office just off the altar, on the right side.  You can’t miss it.  I’ve got five people in here.”

“Are they alive?”

“Yes, and awake.  They’re afraid to come out, though.  Come here, would you?  Help set their minds at ease?”

With Flexy’s bandages, he did look a little rough.  He’d let his goatee grow in much thicker than he’d ever let it before, so he looked like a convict or some other scary dude, so I imagine a woman might set their minds at ease. 

I had exchanged my empty extinguisher for Suzi, who was fully loaded and ready for more long range kills.

I went into the church and followed the sound of voices.  Before going inside, I slung the Uzi over my back so it wasn’t the first thing these people saw.

When I walked in, there was a woman who was somewhere in her forties, a girl who might have been in her late teens, and three men.  One looked like a hippy punk, about six feet tall, medium build with eyebrow and lip piercings and tattoos ranging from LA Ink to prison quality running down both arms and protruding from his chest up along his neck.  He wore a plain white tee shirt and jeans, with a worn, silver studded leather jacket in his lap.  His brown hair was long; down to his mid-back, and his kinky beard was probably five inches off his chin.  I guessed he was about 28 years old and probably owned the Indian bike I’d noticed on the side of the church.  I don’t like to judge anyone by their appearance, but in stressful situations I sometimes do.  In this particular case, I immediately hoped that neither Charlie, Flex nor I would need to put the guy in his place, because one thing applied to everyone without exception:  If anything we’re doing isn’t to your liking, feel free to fuck off anytime you like.

And then my eyes met his.  In his eyes, which were an intense blue, there was a tired, grateful smile.  I can read people extremely well, just so long as I’m not dating them.  Honestly.  And I knew with that one held glance that my snap judgment about him had been dead wrong.  There was a good heart and head in there.

I nodded at him, returned the smile, and continued my scan of our new charges – because no matter how you sliced it, that’s what these people were.

Another of the men had the look of a stereotypical accountant.  He was bald with dark patches of hair on both sides and small, round glasses.  His skin was pale, and he  trembled like a freaked out
Chihuahua surrounded by strangers.

The last gentleman was older.  The first one we’d seen.  He was likely in his late sixties or early seventies – which was my first guess – and as thin as the rest.  He had a full head of grey hair, which still managed to be stylish even though it was long and needed a trim.

“Hey, Flex.  Hi, guys.  How you holding up?”

They all mumbled hellos, even managed minuscule smiles.

The tattooed longhair held out his hand.  “Name’s Dave.  Dave Gammon.”

I took it and shook it.  “Hi, Dave.  My name’s Gem Cardoza.”

Dave was soft spoken and respectful.  His handshake was firm, but not designed to get any point across but hello.  Time would tell, but I would stick to my modified opinion of him: good guy.

“Pleased to meet you, Gem.”

One by one, the others held out their hands and I met them.  The older woman was Betty Jane Kapla.  The young girl was Lisa Rowe.  The bald man with the glasses was Jerry Nixon, and the older man, whom I liked immediately, was Todd Babb.

“You can trust us,” said Flex.  “We’ve been from
Georgia to Florida and back, then headed to Birmingham, Alabama.”

“Until,” I cut in, “We decided it was selfish to hole up anywhere and let the world go to shit.  So we’re heading to somewhere our resident genius, Hemphill Chatsworth, says might be safer, and we’re taking along stragglers if they want to join us.  It’s time to put the world right again and run the enemy out of town.”

“Gem,” said Flex.  “We –”

“We’ll figure it out,” I said.  I turned back to the others.  “We didn’t leave a safe building with an awesome new weapon so that we could run around the country leaving people vulnerable.  So I’ll tell you we’re heading to
New Hampshire, and if you want to come along you’re welcome.”

Flex smiled at me, and I knew he was thinking I had a big fucking mouth.  He also knew there was no sense in arguing with me.  I was the one who earlier didn’t even want Cynthia and Taylor along.  Now I was inviting another twelve people if I was counting right – all of unknown personality and demeanor – to come along for the ride.

“You’ll have to get vehicles,” he said.  “We can fill them up, but get something reliable.  Hemp can outfit them with guns later, but if you decide to go with us, you’re bring up the rear, so we can clear out any obstacles before you have to deal with them.  Who’s in?”

“What is the particular appeal of
New Hampshire?” asked Todd, the older man I’d liked right away.

“Granite,” said Flex.  “It’s what lies under
Concord.  Less porous than most rock.”

“And that’s confusing because you don’t know there’s a gas coming up from inside the earth,” I said.  “Two things to know:  The gas will turn your ass into one of them if you’re not immune to urushiol – don’t ask – and if we go somewhere like that, the uninfecteds might actually outnumber the infecteds.  Or the odds might be better, at least.”

“Urushiol?” asked Dave.  “Isn’t that the poison in mango skins?”

I looked at Flex and he at me.  “Yeah.  Also in poison ivy and other plants.  How did you know that?”

“I’m from Florida.  Just rode up to see my kid sister here.”  He touched the shoulder of the young girl, Lisa.  She smiled and threw her hand up in a wave.

“Hi,” she said.  “I brought him here.  It was the only place I could think of to go.  My dad killed my mom, and then Dave had to kill him.”

She broke down into sobs and I handed my gun to Flex and knelt down, pulling her into my arms. 

“It’s okay, Lisa.  We’ve all been through terrible things.  We’ll help you.”