The Hollow Men (Book 1): Crave (9 page)

Typical of Scott, he made a lighthearted joke when the situation called for serious discussion. Tom’s temper was on a hair trigger. He felt the anger building again.

Scott spoke earnestly. “Look, you always say that fear is the killer. Let’s not get everyone panicking until we see how things play out tomorrow. I’ve been on enough treks to know that people, especially those living in cities, will lose resolve very quickly in the face of scarcity. Limited to a trunkful of food and the prospect of sleeping in their cars, I see them heading back to their homes tomorrow. We should hang tight, but keep an eye out in case there
is
a complete breakdown.”

Tom looked into the future, imagining society falling apart. People would bleed. Many would die horribly from disease and hunger. Some would suffer worse at the hands of evil men who would comb neighborhoods for people to rape, torture and kill. He imagined it so clearly, he could practically taste their bloodthirst in his own throat. Outwardly, he showed no signs of his internal struggle to keep from grabbing his friend by the ears and shaking the stupidity out of him.

“You’re being foolish,” he said. “What happened after the game was only a taste of nasty things to come. I am not going to sit around waiting for hell to arrive at my doorstep. I’m going. I’m taking my family. Come with us, or don’t come.”

Scott glared at his long-time friend. “Take a breath and try this again. First, I agree with you. We’re going on offense not defense. We’re saving our families. Neighbors, if we can. Now, let’s figure out the best thing to do, and then come back to when.”

“That’s easy. We take everyone to the Lomazzo Estate.”

Lomazzo began as an old stone fort and military surplus storehouse constructed in the mid-1800s. In the 1920s, a wealthy industrialist named Francis Lomazzo bought the land and had the old fort reconstructed into an expansive residence in the architectural style of an Italian castle. His family owned the estate until the 1960s. Scandal and bankruptcy left the property untended. Over the decades, the building had fallen into disrepair. Vandals had marked the exterior of the once-majestic stone walls.

“It’s perfect. Surrounded by fruit orchards. And it’s huge. We could bring as many people as we want. Best of all, it’s built on a rounded hill and has an unobstructed 360-degree view. Its walls are still strong, and there are many defensible positions if ever attacked. I have enough guns stashed to hold off a small army.”

His argument didn’t convince Scott. “It’s a pretty famous structure surrounded by acres of produce. It will become a mecca for hordes of hungry, displaced people. What do we do with them? Shoot them? Welcome them? We both know the violent will be hiding among the desperate. Things could fall apart very quickly.”

Scott paused. Tom could feel Scott’s eyes studying his face. Tom kept his face slack, unreadable. His friend continued, “My family has a cabin in a remote valley in the Adirondacks. I know the area very well. It’ll need some repairs, which will be difficult, and we’ll gather food, we’ve both been trained to survive in harsh conditions. Most importantly, we’ll be in a place no one will stumble across, let alone look for.”

Normally, Tom relished debate. Arguments tested the strength of any plan, revealing weaknesses and ultimately resulting in stronger solutions. Tonight, frustration boiled in him. The sense that danger pressed in on his family became more intense. Something had fundamentally changed since his fight in the locker room. His core had shifted. He felt like a paper man, a fragile version of himself too weak to protect those he loved most in the world. His tone was brittle. “It feels like banishing ourselves to the land of starvation. And it feels like hiding. I don’t like it.”

They fell into silence. Frogs thrummed with the sound of twanging rubber bands.

Scott broke the quiet with a heavy sigh. “Hey, you OK, buddy?”

The question irritated Tom. He didn’t need coddling. He thought Scott should stop wasting time disagreeing with him and just get on board with his plan.
Pathetic.

His lip curled into a sneer. “Doing better than you,
buddy.
You should stop worrying about me and focus on your wife and kids. It’s tiresome building a plan to save your family in addition to protecting mine.”

Scott squared off against Tom. Tom saw his fists tightening. He readied himself for the punch he knew would come, excited by it. In battle, he normally felt complete calm. His mind would clear. Tonight, he heard a roaring in his ears comparable to standing at the base of Niagara Falls.

A microsecond before Scott took a swing, Tom gained control of himself, relaxed his position and backed away, hands held up in surrender, making peace.

He didn’t understand why his emotions were so out of control and felt sick about insulting his friend. He shook his head ruefully, upset at himself for acting that way. “I’m sorry, mate. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Today was too much. I just…” He trailed off, waiting for his friend to signal either anger or forgiveness.

“So, you aren’t superhuman after all. I promise not to tell your wife,” Scott said, the edge in his tone softened. Still, he looked at his friend with his eyes narrowed and prompted, “What now?”

“OK. First, you are right. It would be stupid to go off half-cocked in the morning. We’ll take the time we need to plan an operation. While we figure it out, let’s get the grills out. This might be the last time we get to eat meat that comes from an animal larger than a squirrel. What do you think? I can give you one more shot at the title.”

Every year, Scott and Tom competed fiercely to see who was the best outdoor chef. Their challenges ran the gamut: grill the best porterhouse, create the best original rub, build the juiciest burger, bake the most delicious Dutch oven dessert. They shared a passion for all things cooked on flame: fish, steak, pork, burgers, chicken—they even roasted a vegetable or two after not-so-subtle prodding from their wives. From early spring to late summer, they matched grill against grill. The crowned winner had bragging rights for the winter. The other suffered an ignominious defeat. Scott had been banished to the circle of shame for the last three winters.

Memories of hundreds of such cook offs restored a level of camaraderie. “Sounds good. The last few summers were just a hustle. I’ve been holding back the haymaker that’s going to end your streak,” Scott said.

Tension cleared, Tom stepped off the porch. He welcomed the darkness when the black night swallowed him up. At his own doorstep, he turned around, still puzzled over the way he’d treated his oldest friend. “I’m a bit crook,” he said, slipping into Aussie slang, “but there’s no excuse for what I said. I mean it. I’m sorry.”

Scott waved it off. “Don’t worry about it. Get some sleep. You’re going to need it.” He looked weary as he opened the door and walked inside his house.

Tom sat outside for ten more minutes, reflecting on the night’s events and trying to be impartial in weighing Scott’s plans against his own. He found himself getting angry again. Scott was plain wrong. Living in the mountains with kids, scrounging for worms to eat with pine needle soup. He snorted at the foolishness of it. Tom almost walked back to his friend’s house to rekindle the argument.

He shook himself out of his irrationality.
What’s wrong with me?
He forced himself to calm. Talking about it tonight wasn’t going to solve anything. The pressing darkness and the wet heat disconcerted him. For the second time that night, he felt afraid, a feeling that he’d seldom experienced in his life. He needed rest, badly. He didn’t even take off his clothes before collapsing into bed. Sleep took him quickly.

CHAPTER 18

N
IGHT’S
D
ARK
S
HADE

S
cott dreamt of meat.

A glorious five-pound pork butt glistened in front of him on a large white tray. The carefully selected cut of meat shook like jelly every time he touched it. It had a glorious wedge of tantalizing fat marbling the middle. He imagined the low, slow heat of his smoker working its magic, melting the thick lard into the meat, giving it a mouthwatering, buttery flavor.

Using a dry cloth, he patted it dry before applying a light coating of olive oil. With a steady rolling of his wrist, he generously blanketed the pork in a balanced mixture of black pepper, cayenne pepper, paprika, salt, garlic, brown sugar, and Colman’s dry mustard—only Colman’s was worthy.

Scott’s nostrils inhaled the peppery dust. It tickled, then burned his sinus cavities, making his eyes water. He worked the rub into the meat with a technique that could rival the skills of an expert masseuse in any upscale resort. His fingers came away sticky from the raw pork.

He salivated in anticipation of eating the tender meat. He couldn’t wait hours for the meat to cook. He had to have it now. He held the quivering muscle to his lips, stretching his mouth wide to sink his incisors deep into the savory flesh. This was the best smoked pork he’d ever eaten.

Juice from the meat rolled down his arm. In his dream he felt no pain, only the pleasure of swallowing, then tearing his teeth into it and swallowing again. He couldn’t get enough of it. The more he gorged himself the more he craved it. He was so hungry.

More meat. More meat. More meat.

• • •

Laura stood on a rise overlooking a crowded rural street. The sun shone brightly. Not a single cloud hung in the sky, yet a thick, oily smoke filled the air, distorting everything. There seemed to have been a terrible accident. Blood was everywhere. Dead or dying people were strewn all over the road. Some were standing up and then falling as they struggled to walk on broken legs.

Scott lay in the street, too. She couldn’t tell if he was dead or alive. Maddy and Emily were dragging the baby carrier and trying to reach their mom. They were screaming. Autumn sat in her car seat. She screamed too.

Freakish people with ghastly, pale faces surrounded her girls.

Zombies.

Stringy muscles rotted on bony arms. Misshapen hands curled into talons. Mouths twisted in sickly grins. Hungry, their teeth clicked and chattered.

They wanted her children, wanted to eat their flesh. She ran to her girls. It seemed as if she ran in place; the distance never grew shorter. She could see the zombies would get them, and it tore her heart apart.

All of a sudden, Scott stood up. She was so happy. He was closest to them. He would save them. The girls thought the same thing. They ran toward him, crying, “Daddy, Daddy.” He crouched as if to hug them, arms thrown wide. Instead of giving them a warm embrace, he grabbed them roughly and began to chew into their soft bodies.

He tore mouthfuls of flesh from each one. Bits of skin stretched then snapped free. Their crying changed to screams of pain. They fell down, sobbing, betrayed by their dad. He studied Laura then turned to the baby.

Laura shouted at her husband “Not the girls! Not the baby!”

He gazed at Autumn and took her hands first. The baby’s confused screams cut like a rusty knife through Laura’s heart.

The other zombies stopped converging on her family. The two older girls wobbled to their feet. They had joined the animated dead. They wore slackened expressions as they saw their dad hold Autumn in his arms, the same way he did on the day she was born. She too had turned into a zombie.

Scott lifted his hand and pointed at Laura with a palsied finger. He motioned for her to join him. Maddy stood on his right and Emily stood on his left. He held the baby with one arm and with his other arm, beckoned again for Laura to join him.

The smoky haze dissipated. She realized she’d lost her family. Her soul suffered more pain than she could bear. She needed it to end.

She walked to her husband, held onto him and closed her eyes, waiting for him. Scott’s mouth touched hers. He gave her a soft kiss, then his hunger took over. His teeth cut into her lips and ripped them away.

The girls were next to eat, tugging at her arms. The baby fed at her breasts, little tooth buds sawed at her skin.

Laura experienced the pain distantly behind a numb disbelief. Her mouth burned. Her arms hurt as if they had been scraped along a cheese grater. Her breasts felt torn like rags. The crowd of zombies pushed forward for their share. As they closed in, she smelled the rancid blood in their tattered clothing.

• • •

Evil dreams tormented the Park family as well.

In Chase’s nightmare, a macabre version of the championship football game played over and over. The quarterback handed him the football. He broke through the defensive line and sprinted into the end zone, lifting the ball in triumph.

Crowds in the stands stared at him disinterestedly. Their apathy was more painful than the jeers he got from them at the real game. When he looked again, he saw the stadium had become a mausoleum. Everyone was dead. He searched for his dad in the stands, but his dad had vanished.

Lights on the field went out. The ball he held became slick with mucous. In the dim light, Chase brought the object closer to discover he held his father’s severed head. Its eyelids popped open, revealing white cataracts over brown irises.

Then it looped back to the beginning. The quarterback handed off the ball…

• • •

In her nightmare, Ridley traveled aimlessly in a sulfurous miasma, thick as tar. Chase and Katie were screaming. She waded to their silhouetted forms. They were moving along the bank of a river with the viscosity and speed of lava flows. Her kids kept pace with one unrecognizable figure who floated, half-submerged in the tumbling waterway. They were pleading, “Please, no. Come back! Come back!”

She tried to pull them protectively into her arms. Her hands passed through them sluggishly, as though she’d swished her arms in Jell-O. Her arms left ripples in the shapes of her children. When she withdrew her hands, they came out sticky with blood.

She scanned for the person causing her children the anguish, thinking she might be able to effect a rescue. She stumbled, falling into the flowing river. The absence of liquid surprised her.