Fight the Hunger: A Hunger Driven Novel Read online

  Banishing these painful memories, I forced my tired body into motion and set about making some moves before the expected guests rolled into town. First thing I did was drive out to the four mangled motorcycles and straightened up a bit. I towed the bikes off the road and made sure all four riders were down for good. I didn’t try to clean up the site, just disguise what was under each pile of wrecked metal by adding more wreckage on top. Not perfect, but all I could manage while fending off the occasional shamble and multiple crawlers that turned up.

  One crawler nearly scared me to death as he managed to clamp down on the back of my left heel, but the thick work boots I wore didn’t even show a scratch after I blew the creature’s brains all over the pavement. I made sure to angle the pistol so I had no chance of catching the round on the way out. Not only would that suck, it would also almost guarantee I would be infected with this plague. I’d never seen that happen, but I knew someone who did. I believed her.

  Once the bikers’ fate was sufficiently muddied, I retreated back to the Dollar General rooftop and began making plans. I could try to relocate to another shooting roost, and hope the drug lord’s men didn’t roll in on me in the middle of getting set up. With my luck, I didn’t like the odds. I’d make my stand here.

  Now, I was not a people person, but that didn’t mean I was Rain Man. I was a numbers guy in my old job, but I had to be pretty good at judging people, too. Doctor Gooden had no evidence to back up her claims, but I looked at the girls she was escorting. I mean, really looked, and took the time to read their eyes. They were terrified, and not of the dead. Whether her pursuer was a Mexican drug lord or the King of England, whoever released their hounds to chase these girls had to be in the wrong.

  Looking around with a new eye, I saw something that caught my attention immediately. About six hundred yards from the store I spied something that might be a game changer. The small tanker truck was a mess, having smashed into a concrete barrier and the whole front of the twelve-wheel vehicle was caved in and ruined. Obviously, that truck was not moving short of a massive wrecker. The kind used to haul 18 wheelers. However, I was remembering something I saw on a YouTube video.

  Walking around the edges of the roof, I saw a parked RV down the street. Maybe, I thought, maybe that will have what I need. I could feel the time passing as I climbed back down and drove over to check the big recreational vehicle.

  Not sure where the tank would be, I tried the door and found the entrance unlocked. Pulling my pistol, the quiet one, I eased the door open. I knew I was rushing things, not following my own protocols, but still I was shocked when the creature leaped at me.

  He had to have heard me coming and instead of jumping at the door and pounding, he’d been waiting for me, torn lips pulled back in a welcoming grimace and clawed hands grasping at me. He was long dead and still pretty spry, especially for a tub of lard, as he launched himself at my throat.

  Pop, pop, pop echoed the shots as I walked the rounds into his face. The now-fully dead body still crashed into me like a wrestler flying off the top ropes. I struck the asphalt with a bounce and laid there for a moment, stunned, until I heard the RV shift again. The dead man trapping me under his stinking bulk had not been alone.

  I couldn’t see the other zombie at first, and I panicked, shoving the fat man off my chest. My hands sank into the rotting goo of his melting lard midsection. I wanted to throw up and scream at the same time, but the second hungry monster was almost on top of me as well.

  Rolling, I evaded her clumsy grab and came to one knee, firing into the back of her head from less than six inches away. The graying strands of hair puffed out as the low velocity round punched into her skull. At least her hair didn’t catch on fire this time. I hate when that happens.

  “Fuck a duck,” I cursed, and then started coughing. This was definitely going to require my scent-treated mask.

  Five minutes later, I found the cubbyhole and hauled the tank out of the RV and slung it into the truck bed. I was still trying to fight the dry heaves as I caught a whiff of rancid, rotted lard off my gloves. These were definitely getting burned.

  Once I reached the wrecked tanker, knocked on the side of the metal skin until I determined the tank actually contained about half of its load. Gasoline, I confirmed from code placard on the side. Then, I started scanning for the right place to wedge the twenty pound tank I’d salvaged. I needed a good line of sight back to the store roof, but not something that looked contrived. Feeling short of time, I just shoved the keg shaped metal barrel up under the bottom of the fuel carrier and slid a piece of sheet metal in place to shield any curious eyes from the road.

  Deciding this was good enough, I sprinted back to the Ford and fired it up. For some reason, I felt like I had eyes on me out here though I could see nothing even with the binoculars on maximum magnification. Now, one more thing.

  Climbing the ladder for the umpteenth time this day, I carefully shed my gloves and donned another set. I made sure to avoid letting any of the contaminated surface come in contact with my bandages on my right hand. Using the toe of my boot I eased those stinking gloves over the side of the building.

  Then I had no more time. I could hear engines in the distance. Big engines. It sounded like some of Sandoval’s dogs were coming in search of their missing Tarantulas. Hustling over to the cased rifles, I removed the Winchester and laid it out with the barrel pointed out over the concrete parapet. That would be for later, but first I needed to uncase the monster.

  The case was a custom foam job, with cutouts for each component. I grunted at the weight as I unlimbered the Barrett M82A1 fifty caliber BMG anti-material rifle. The bipod legs helped with the weight, but still it weighed over thirty pounds unloaded. The ten round magazines looked as big as old VCR tapes, and the optics package included a ballistic computer that was no doubt smarter than the operator.

  This was the civilian version, a toy I salvaged from a rich man’s estate out on Lake Livingston. It came with two magazines and a total of ninety rounds. I’d never fired one of these monsters before the end of the world, and honestly I didn’t enjoy the experience. The recoil was too much for fun shooting, but I’d made myself waste enough rounds to familiarize myself with the beast. Now I was going to be relying on this thing to even the odds. Like the Model 70, this was a weapon intended for use against humans, endangered but still the most dangerous species on the planet.

  Good thing I was where I would be making my stand, because for right now I was too freaking tired to move anywhere else. Now we would see if a big gun and my harebrained plan would work to stop these guys.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The lead vehicle was a Peterbilt tractor outfitted with an oversized ram, like a train’s cowcatcher. This diesel monster looked like something out of a Mad Max sequel down to the welded-on armor and spikes. The purpose was obvious as it bulled through the scattered traffic and cleared space for the trailing convoy. I counted three Humvees in line, with an armored car looking vehicle covering the rear. I saw six wheels and an oddly shaped hull. Then it clicked. That’s a Stryker. Some kind of assault vehicle, and it was supposed to have either a heavy machine gun or an automatic grenade launcher. Fuck.

  I checked the laser range finder and saw the tractor was at twelve hundred meters. Then I lased the tanker and discovered the range was actually a little over six hundred meters. I would definitely be shooting up the Peterbilt, but first I needed to see if I could take out that Stryker.

  As I hoped, the impending action finally got my adrenalin pumping and I found myself anxiously watching the distance drop. I wondered idly if Doctor Gooden made it safely to the Woodville base, but even if she’d been hauling ass, there was no way I would getting the help I needed.

  As soon as the Stryker drew even with the tanker, I took up the last bit of slack and squeezed the trigger. BOOM. My ears rang through the ear protectors, and I waited for the second, larger explosion which did not come. Fuck.

  I fired again, making the t
iniest of adjustments. BOOM. Then, the horizon seemed to explode in a sheet of flame. Got it that time. The partially filled twenty pound propane tank served as a trigger for the half full gasoline tanker. The resulting explosion made the roof jump, and I felt the wind blow against my face.

  “Wow. I guess YouTube don’t lie.”

  The key was the gasoline vapor that collected in the tanker, which was even more volatile than liquid gasoline. The propane bomb set off that vapor, and I had to strain to see the details. The Stryker and two of the Humvees had apparently been completely destroyed by the explosion, but the Peterbilt was hurtling ahead, racing down the highway.

  Swinging the Barrett back on this new target, I triggered one, two, three rounds into the truck’s cabin, then another two rounds into the engine compartment. The anti-material nature of the rifle proved accurate, as the stack instantly began venting a black column. Then the flames began to lick at the hood of the tractor and the big vehicle rumbled to a halt.

  Someone jerked open the passenger side door and the man stumbled down to sprawl on the asphalt. He was covered with blood but I couldn’t tell if it was his blood or not. Didn’t matter. Before the body could do more than twitch, a crawler got there and began to feed.

  Tearing my eyes away from the feeding zombie, I looked around to try to spot any other survivors. I saw one last Humvee making a three point turn and began a hasty retreat, heading back south.

  Activating the ballistic computer and the laser range finder, I watched the military vehicle speed away. I emptied the last three rounds from the magazine, then swapped out for the second and last magazine. Spacing out the shots, I know I must have hit the back of the Humvee at least half a dozen times but other than swerving all over the road, the vehicle managed to limp away and out of sight.

  Setting aside the Barrett, I picked up the Winchester but did not shoulder the rifle. I didn’t know if I could actually do it. My arms felt like spaghetti and I suddenly needed a drink. Instead of the Winchester, I stumped over on stiff legs and hoisted one of the Ruger 10/22 rifles.

  So, I sat there and watched the trucks burn. I knew eventually the zombies would be attracted to the flames and I was ready to pick them off before they burned down the town. That was what Colonel Northcutt would want done.

  I wondered about the odd behavior of some of the zombies I’d seen in the last few days. If they could hold only their rudimentary thoughts for even a little bit longer, we might have a problem. Standard procedure now included using a truck to lure the dead away from stores, driving just faster than the fastest zombie to clear out a gathering. But what if they started following the trucks back to the Safe Zones? I knew the gate guards and roving patrols were seeing more zeds, but most of us attributed that to the warming weather and the zombies roaming further from ‘home’. What if they were getting smarter?

  Trying to get my mind out of that potential disaster, I found my thoughts going back to Dr. Gooden. Not in any particularly prurient way, I reminded myself, but she was interesting. I knew there was a story to how she managed to get those girls out from under Sandoval’s thumb, and despite my determination to stay ignorant of the details, I thought I might see what she was willing to share. So I thought about many things as I sat there.

  For the moment, that’s about all I could manage. Sitting and thinking. I’d stick around and wait for a detachment from the Guard or the militia to show up, and then I was taking some time to recover. Maybe get a shower. I was willing to bet if Captain Shurman showed up, he’d be bending my ear pretty hard before letting me get that shower. Somehow, he would try to find a way to spin this as being all my fault. He was predictable, at least. The jackass.

  One thing I wasn’t willing to admit yet, though, even to myself. The endless Winter of my soul was finally beginning to give way to Spring. The ice around my heart was melting, bit by bit. I knew I would never fully recover from my losses, and that was okay. Roxy had been right, of course. I was just trying to heal.

  Maybe helping the doctor and her charges had something to do with my change in spirit, but as I sat there enjoying the last rays of the day’s sun, I felt a real, honest-to-God smile touch my lips. Just for a moment, and then it was gone again.

  AFTERWARD

  First, let me say that I am not a short story writer. I’m sure some folks might agree with that after reading Brad’s tale. What I mean, though, is that some writers are most comfortable creating delicate little jewels in the 10,000 to 20,000 word range that just blow away readers. They manage to pack the whole enchilada in just a few dozen pages.

  I’m still working on getting this part down, so please bear with me. Hunger Driven was my first published short story, and I’m working on polishing my skills in this area of writing.

  I originally authored a version of this story a few years ago, and wrote it out in long hand using a pencil. I finished the story, closed up the notebook, and set it aside. I’d always dreamed of being a professional writer. However, even I knew there wasn’t much of a market for short stories from unknown authors.

  The thing is, this story stuck with me. Over the years, I’d take the manuscript out, read through, and make a few changes and think, “Well, this doesn’t suck.” Also, during that time, I thought about just how devastated someone like Brad McCoy, or any of the survivors, would be in the wake of losing their families. I’m not much for digging deep for emotional meaning, but still the story stuck with me and I imagined all sorts of adventures for Brad and company.

  Time passed, and I hit upon a new idea for a story. That kernel of an idea eventually became the series, Walking in the Rain. I’ve enjoyed that series and I am beginning work on the next book in that series, with a working title of Lines in Shadow. In the meantime, there was this other story that I thought readers might enjoy.

  So, I worked on bringing Fight the Hunger to life. The following is a full length sequel to continue to story started in “Hunger Driven”. Brad is still a bit of a prick, as you will see, but he’s also a deeply pained individual who is fighting his own demons.

  I want to thank TJ Reeder, Craig Allen and Michael Scott in particular for all their help and for asking the hard questions. All the mistakes are mine. They are the ones that helped me get things right. Also, this story was intended to be a stand-alone tale, but I got to like the crusty character of Brad and decided to give him some additional time to develop as a character. I’ve got more stories, if anyone is interested.

  Will Allen

  PART TWO

  FIGHT THE HUNGER

  A Hunger Driven Novel

  By

  William Allen

  Copyright 2016. All Rights Reserved.

  Malleus Publishing

  Other Books by William Allen

  Walking in the Rain Book One: Surviving the Fall

  Homes Fires Burning (Walking in the Rain Book Two)

  Hard Rain Falling (Walking in the Rain Book Three)

  Dark Sky Thunder (Walking in the Rain Book Four)

  Firestorm (Walking in the Rain Book Five and written by MC Allen)

  Lines in Shadow (Walking in the Rain Book Six)***forthcoming

  Short Stories and Anthologies

  Hunger Driven, a Short Story

  Ware, Goblins (found in the Bite-Sized Offerings anthology)

  Foreword

  Do you ever read those zombie books where the heroes run around and whack zombies in the head and they fall down, brains running out of their rotting melons? Yes, me too. There’s always some sage old man who laments the fact that “there’s not enough bullets in the world” to put them all down. That may be true, and head shots are not easy. Go to the range and try to shoot groups the size of a human head consistently at any great distance and you’ll see what I mean. Then add in the zombie’s awkward, shuffling gait and you will see that shooting zombies in the head is not exactly like shooting fish in a barrel.

  Except, of course, if you have time to line up the shot. And plenty of ammo. Then th
e odds may turn a bit. That is the idea behind this book, and the short story before it. If you make the right moves and have a little bit of luck, then fighting the dead is not impossible. As long as you can survive the living.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Salvage work is no kind of way to make a living, long term. Not for me, anyway. For some of the younger guys who still liked to play at being macho, then I guess I could see the attraction. These were the same guys you used to see on Internet videos invariably doing something stupid, but not before turning away from the camera and mumbling those immortal words, “Here, hold my beer.”

  Yes, most of those dumbasses got bit, got turned, and really didn’t lose that many IQ points. But still a few remained, and most of them seemed to enjoy doing salvage work. Because nothing says “fun” more than going into a darkened space with one or more walking dead and playing tag. Yes, they went in heavily armored, but it only took a little nibble to infect, and in a swarm they could shuck you out of the armor in just a few minutes.

  I didn’t like doing salvage, but I made myself go do it anyway. This operation had cost me in time, food, and ammo and though I had little in the way of overhead, I did have people who depended on me. So I geared up in my heavy coveralls, snake-proof boots, and police riot helmet to go do battle. So here, hold my beer.

  The Walmart was wiped out early on, of course, but the pawn shop and the small gun shop in town looked untouched. So, as per my contract with the colonel, I got first dibs. Usually I could at least get a soldier loaned to me for support, standing outside the gloom and shining a light into the store. Not this time.

  Captain Shurman was pissed. I knew he would be. Guy is a prick with legs, a real evolutionary marvel. That I say things like that out loud may have something to do with why the arrogant asshole didn’t like me. This time, I managed to save a carload of survivors and hold off a hostile invasion by the Mexican Mafia all by my lonesome. Did I get a medal? A Scooby Snack? Or even a pat on the back? Nooooo.