The Dead Hunger Series: Books 1 through 5

BOOKS ONE THROUGH FIVE OF THE DEAD HUNGER SERIES BY ERIC A. SHELMAN

The Dead Hunger series is a work of fiction By

Eric A. Shelman

All characters contained herein are fictional, and all similarities to persons living or dead are purely coincidental.

This text cannot be copied or duplicated without author or publisher written permission.

Series ISBN:

ISBN 978-0-9891416-2-8

©2013 Dolphin Moon Publishing

All Cover Art By Gary McCluskey

Dead Hunger

A Flex
Sheridan Novel

By Eric A. Shelman

Dead Hunger is a work of fiction By

Eric A. Shelman

All characters contained herein are fictional, and all similarities to persons living or dead
are purely coincidental.

This text cannot be copied or duplicated without author or publisher written permission.

©2011 Dolphin Moon Publishing

Cover Art By Gary McCluskey

Prologue

Jamie Leighton.  Redhead, 5’8” tall.  Fair skin, slight build.  Pretty green eyes, and long fingers.

Anything – no, everything – but ordinary.  But to the casual observer, there was nothing extraordinary about her.  Most of the time she was
Baby
to her husband Jack,
Mom
to her two girls, Jesse, 8,  and Trina, 6, and she was just beautiful to me.  I miss her.

When she first
turned, the aftermath was terrifying.  I swore I’d help her if it was the last thing I ever did.  Turns out it wasn’t the last thing or the first thing or any goddamned thing, because there was and is a shitload of stuff to do and it never seems to get to be a smaller shitload.

I’m Flex Sheridan.  Jamie used to share my last name with me. 
My baby sister.

I’ll tell you how this started
.  The process will introduce you to me and my friends, but your guess will be as good as mine as to what comes next for us in this bizarre new world.  Any other time I’d sound crazy as shit, but if you’re reading this, then you know I’m not.

The dead have risen.  Either that or they never
quite made it into the ground, but either way I’ll tell you this: They’re out there and they are
hungry
.  And getting hungrier every day.  They are persistent.  And they have more ingenuity and instinct than I’d have ever given them credit for in the beginning. 

And they have some abilities that concern us greatly.

I’d started using the term
abnormals
to describe them because Jamie’s one of them.  As much as I knew they were similar to – fuck that, they
were
zombies and there’s no way to get around it – I couldn’t bear calling them that name.  It seemed to be disrespectful to my sister.  Hemp and Gem humored me in that respect initially, but we all eventually gave up the ruse.  Zombies they were, and zombies they would ever be until intense brain trauma.

But even in the beginning,
in the heat of a good fight, we all slipped the Z word occasionally.  I sure as hell didn’t treat any of these zombies with any semblance of the kindness that I gave my sister.  Not even close.  And my sister was so
not
my sister anymore. 

I’ve been
reluctant to use the word zombie, because I don’t want to give this recount of our experiences anything like a comic feel.  There’s nothing funny about it, and again – if you’re alive to read this, then you know that already.  There is not much laughing going on these days.

Nowadays the only person who
can
make me laugh is Gem.  Gemina Cardoza is her full name, but she hates it.  Says her name sounds like a syrup spokesperson.  So she goes by Gem, which is fine by me, because she is
my
precious gem, that’s for sure.

She’s out rounding up supplies
with Charlie right now.  You might wonder, in a world where zombie-like creatures are wandering the earth, why I’d let her go with someone else besides me.  That’s because you don’t know Gem, and you don’t know Charlie.  If you did, you wouldn’t wonder.  I’m wearing the other half of our two-ways, and if they get in any trouble, I’ll get a double-tap on the talk button.  That means they’ve run into some of
them
.   If I get a triple tap next, that means they’ve dispatched them by bullet or arrow, and we’re back to cool. 

But if I get a single tap first, or after the double tap, that means COME NOW WE’RE FUCKED and that means no time for punctuation or mixed case letters. 

We carry automatic weapons and other fun toys, and we’ve got pretty good experience using them.  Heck, we’re even teaching the six-year-old how to handle a gun, and surprisingly, she’s coming along pretty well.  Nonetheless, none of us have gotten killed or wounded yet, and we’re skilled enough that we don’t waste a lot of ammo. 

Fuck if I didn’t
knock on some wood after I wrote that just now. 

If I hear a single
tap on that walkie, or even
think
I heard one, then as many of us as are left at the base head out fast.  We have an itinerary.  I know where they’re going.  We have flare guns, too.  I know where to look and when I see the flare, I head for it.  Our vehicles are fortified and fast, and we make good time.  We’re always heavily armed when we’re out in the wild world.

We got each other’s backs.  In this world, you need a partner or you’re dead.  Gem is mine.   And I’m hers.

And now we have little Trina and of course Bunsen and her brood.  But that’ll come later.  That part should be told a little at a time.

Hemphill Chatsworth is
one of us, part of our posse, if you will.  He goes by Hemp and he’s British.  That doesn’t mean anything to you or me, but I’m telling you to explain his name.  He’s definitely not southern born.

Hemp’s
32 years old and he’s a scientist.  He’s got two degrees that have come in very handy since the plague, or whatever you want to call it, came along.  He’s got a Biology degree with a major in Epidemiology.  He couldn’t have gotten that shit more perfect except that he also got his Engineering degree.  Mechanical engineering.  So not only did the son-of-a-bitch want to know how the human body worked, he wanted to know how machines worked and how to design them.  His mind works in images.  We talk about something we need – in particular, something to wipe out large numbers of zombies at once, and he visualizes it; creates it in his mind.  We’ve yet to build any of them, but Gem, our resident artist, has laid out some sketches of his equipment, and I know they’ll be effective.  These raw blueprints are structured in his mind’s eye, and Gem’s hands help make them a buildable reality.

With
Hemp’s two degrees, clearly his parents had too much money, but now he’s ours; mine and Gem’s, and nobody better ever try to take him away from us.

And it’s only
recently that we met.  But if he tries to leave, we’ll either follow him or kill him.  Okay, I’m kidding there.  Killing him would do no good, but that’s how strongly we feel about Hemp.  We’ve got a good partnership, though, and if he needs something, Gem and I are going to do our damndest to get it for him.  Either way, he’s not going anywhere without us.  The guy is a genius, and we can use a good genius for like – forever.

Go ahead.  Picture him.  Y
ou’ll be wrong.  The guy looks just like a So-Cal surfer.  He’s around 5’10”, sandy blonde hair, muscular.  His father was half Irish and half Indian, so he has dark skin, but his mother was a petite blonde, so he’s got that towhead thing going on.  And he got his mom’s blue eyes.  So far he’s borderline single, but it looks like that’s about to change.  The right woman for a guy is definitely harder to come by these days, but Gem and I are thinking that’s worked itself out.

Yep.  Charlie’s a girl.  I think I’d like to tell that part of the story in order, too. 
But suffice it to say she loves her heavy metal rock, she is proficient with a crossbow, and we’re pretty sure that Hemp digs her.  And besides that, Gem and I are convinced that her apprenticeship with Hemp in the lab isn’t solely because she has a fascination with science.

Wow.  All
that shit happened in less than four days.  Unbelievable. 

So you’ll meet
Charlie later.  But with or without a woman, Hemp has his lab, and it really is his world.  Like a kid at Disneyland, he has to force himself to leave it, or be dragged out. 

No radio taps
from Gem or Charlie so far, and that’s good.  If they double tap me, I won’t be good for shit until the triple comes.  In fact, I’m already about to jump out of my skin and into my truck.

So while
Gem and Charlie are out hunting-gathering, Hemp’s in the mobile lab, and I’m working on this, you ought to get to know me.  I’m writing this down, and I’m trying to include all the words exchanged between us along the way so you can see how we dealt with things.  This was all new, so we had nothing at all upon which to base how we should react to anything that happened. 

Now, we’ve got lots to do
, so there’s not a ton of time for me to get into the beginning of this – well,
my
beginning.  Everyone’s is different.  Equally horrible, I’m sure – I don’t have any copyright on that shit – but different.

With a name like Flex, people remember me.  
But just because of the name.  Physically, I’m nothing too oddball.  Six feet tall, medium build.  45 years old.  I got a square jaw and a goatee, green eyes.  I keep my hair trimmed short because Gem or I do the cutting and it’s easier.    Overall, I’m your generic Caucasian male.

Jamie
was born about six years after me.  She’ll be thirty-nine on her next birthday, but one way or the other, I’m pretty sure she won’t be celebrating it.

Right now I’m in
Georgia, back home.  And since it’s July, it’s hot.  But just over three days ago, when I first found out that Jamie needed my help, I jammed to Florida.  And since I can only tell this part of the story from my perspective, then that’s what you’re gonna hear.  Brace yourself.

It’s fucked up.

CHAPTER ONE

Flex Sheridan’s
Chronicle

Late June, 2011

“Hey, Flex,” her voice said, recognizing my number on her cell phone.
  She sounded tired.

“
Afternoon, beautiful.  How are my girls?  I was thinking about heading down to see you guys.  It’s been six months.”

Jamie sighed. 
“I’m not sure now’s a good time, Flex.  Jack and the girls are fine, but I have a headache.  A doozie.”  She sounded more distracted than disappointed.

“That sucks,” I said.  “Migraine?”

There was a pause on the line.  “Yes and no . . . not really.  Not the normal one.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you know how . . . fuck!  Fuck!”

“Jamie, what’s wrong?”  She never cussed, and two fucks in a row was unheard of.  There was more silence.

“Jamie?”

“I’m here,” her voice came, weaker.  “I didn’t have
the prisms, you know?  How I always see prisms in my peripheral vision before one of these comes on?  I felt restless, not able to sleep, but having dreams while I was wide awake, like fantasies of . . . of . . . I hate to even say it, but, like
cannibalism
.  Scared the heck out of me, Flex.  I don’t . . . ”  She trailed off again.

I waited, but had to prompt her.

“Like what?  Nightmares?” I asked.

“I don’t know
.  Not like normal nightmares.  These were like flashes.  Pictures. Images.  Just brief, terrible . . . Fuck!  Hold on.”

“Jamie, are you okay?  You should be in bed!”

The line was still live, but she said nothing.  I heard her breathing, raspy, short.

“Flex?”  She was back.

“I’m here, Jamie.”

“I’m not right,"
 she said, sounding distracted.  "I’m so fucking hungry.  I’m ravenous, Flex.  Like I’m starving!”

“And you’re dropping the F-bomb more than I’ve ever heard you.  What’s that about?”

“If you knew, Flex.  If you knew how this felt!  The dreams were terrible, dark visions of . . . I don’t know.  Hell, maybe.  Darkness.  Evil.  I felt it.  I woke up soaked, and the covers were wrapped around me like I was spinning in my bed.  Jack said he tried to wake me, but I just kept mumbling and thrashing.”

“Jamie, I want you to get to bed.  I’m coming over.  Right now I’m in
Atlanta, so it’ll take me about 5 hours to get to Gainesville from here.”

“Flex, you don’t have to come.
  I’ll . . . I’ll . . .
FUCK
!”

The phone dropped.  I heard screaming.  First it was the terrible sound of Jamie screaming.
  Next I heard what sounded like a door slamming against a wall. 

My fingers gripped the phone like a vice.  Then I heard Jack’s voice in the room, calling for Jamie.  I heard some bumping sounds, and then his voice, louder, into the mouthpiece.

“Hello?  Who is this?”

“Jack!  It’s me, Flex.  What’s happened to Jamie?  She was telling me about her headache, some dreams she had last night, and then she just screamed.  Where is she?”

Jack’s breathing was panicked.  “I heard it from my desk in the bedroom, and ran in here.  The phone was on the floor, and the door’s wide open.  She doesn’t do that because of the swimming pool and the girls.  Flex, hold on.  Let me check on Jesse and Trina.”

I held the phone for what seemed to be ten minutes, though it could not have been more than one.  His voice finally came back on the line.

“They’re fine.  In their room.  Flex, I have to go.  I have –”

There was a loud noise.  Crashing.  Crunching.  A splintering of wood.  My fingers – hell, my whole hand was white from the grip I had on my cell.  The words I heard right before the line went dead sent an icy chill from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. 

“Jamie!  No!  What are you – Jamie!”  It was Jack’s voice.

Then just four words from my sister.

“I’m so
fucking
hungry –” and a loud, wet sound, followed by a deafening thump as the phone apparently hit the floor.

I held onto the phone and listened.  I screamed for Jamie, pleading for someone to pick up the dropped cell, but it sounded muffled, as though something were on top of it, blocking the receiver. 

And I’m thankful.  The sound I heard next was like the one just before the thump, but almost more final – a dull, wet impact.  Then squishing-slurping sounds.  Throaty groans, seemingly of some kind of pleasure. 

I didn’
t know what it meant then.  I sure do now.

I held onto the phone for a good ten minutes, listening in horror before I heard a sound that rocked me nearly off my feet.

Jesse and Trina screaming.  Ear piercing shrieks.  A reaction of horror, pure and unadulterated.

I flipped the phone shut, jammed it into my pocket and bolted out of my house and into my Chevy.  I fired it up and sent rocks spinning as I headed for the main road.
  I hit the I85 south in ten minutes and looked at my watch.  It was 4:00 PM.  My tears didn’t start to fall until the interstate changed to I75 and I pushed it up to 95 miles an hour.

I did not bother to dial the house again.
  The minutes passed like hours.

*****

It wasn’t possible to keep up the speed all the way.  I had to stop for gas twice.  The old Suburban wasn’t built for efficiency, and
fuel prices sucked ass.

I crossed the state line around 7:30.  It was still light out because of Daylight Savings Time, and probably would be until just before 9:00 at night.  Good.  I wanted light
, and lots of it.

Writing this,
I’m really thinking back on that day – one of the blackest days of my life – and I realize that on the road to Gainesville, some shit should have caught my attention that just didn’t.

There were fewer cars on the road
, but there were more accidents than usual.  Bad ones.  Had it been an ordinary day there were probably six or seven times I would’ve pulled over to either help or see if everyone was okay, but that particular day I had my own problems, and I was distracted.  I’m sure I missed a lot of what was happening along the way.

When I think back to that drive, I remember
seeing at least three cars completely flipped over, sitting on the shoulder or smack in the middle of I75 on their roofs.  I must have been in some kind of shock not to really wonder about it.  All that aside, there were other signs.

Thanks to the
self-service credit card readers at gas pumps and quarter-operated air pumps for the tires, you never even have to speak to the attendants at most gas stations.  So I should have found it odd that the attendant began staggering out of his little room toward me as I was getting back in the Suburban, but it barely registered at the time.  I knew I’d paid up, finished my fueling, and didn’t give him a second thought.  I looked at him, threw him a quick wave, but I didn’t
see
him  Not really.  He was probably only two feet behind my truck when I hit the gas.

And now that I think back, there was something wrong with him.  His
jerky movements, the strangeness of his eyes.  His purposeful intent as he approached me.  His eyes weren’t really . . . what’s the word?

They weren’t
there
.

In retrospect – fucking hindsight again –
I’m damned lucky.  I was carrying only a 5-shot Smith & Wesson .38 Special at the time, and while it would have been plenty of firepower, there’d have been no reason to think I needed it until it was too late. 

They say the lightning strike most likely to kill somebody is the first lightning strike of the storm.  That’s because it’s when people least expect it.  For me, the zombie at the gas station was the first lightning strike.  And I was just lucky enough to be out of its reach.

No sense in looking back.  But what I’m saying is the signs were there.  It had begun and I had no clue.  I told Jamie I was in Atlanta – well, that’s not entirely correct.  I’m outside of Atlanta, in an area called Lula.  It’s unincorporated, sparsely populated, and only about 20 minutes outside of civilization.  But for that 20 minutes of driving, there’s nothing.  So where I live feels pretty isolated. 

And
these days I tend to like it that way. 

You should know that at this point I hadn’t
reconnected with Gem yet.  I was on my own, having had my way with a number of women through the years, and lots of them having had their way with me.  In fact, it seems women had just plain
had it
with me.

Not that I was a bad guy.  I never slept with a woman I didn’t
believe I cared for at the time.  How long that went on depended a lot on them.  I wasn’t attracted to the completely dependent type with no interests other than me, the kind that sat around and waited for me to decide what to do, and I didn’t like the ones that seemed not to really care if I was there or not.  I was seeking a balance; a woman who had her own life and interests, had an interest in mine, but who didn’t hang everything on my plans, and who didn’t hang on my every word.

That was Gem.  She was the best fit I’d ever had. 
Beautiful and tough.  Comfortable and easy.  No guilt, no pressure, but great sex.  And when I had something for work that I needed to do, she was genuinely interested. 

Hell, I was only an electrician, but if I had a circuit
layout to design, she’d sit there and drink coffee and just watch me lay it out as though what I did was art, a creation.  In a way, I guess it was, but not like her stuff.  She was a true artist.  Paint and clay ran through her veins.

She’
d always been an artist and illustrator, but the latter was more for architectural design, and it bored the shit out of her.  It was a way to make money when her art wasn’t moving in the local galleries, but there was too much structure and no freedom of expression.  I could always tell when she was working on building illustrations; she was grouchy and cussed a lot.  She’d put down her weed for coffee and the edginess showed.  But even her architectural drawings were amazing to me; the perspective, the shading.  No bullshit.  She was and is pure artistry, and I got into watching her do her thing.  When she got into her own creations, whether with paint, clay, copper or paper, she blew my mind.  The woman could make a shit statue that blew my mind, for Christ’s sake.  As for her mind, it functioned in this world, but also in an alternate world; we’ll call it the abstract world.  She saw things differently.  Nothing sequential about her – she had her own approach, is about the only way I can explain it.  She shifted the order to suit her brain and made it work even better
out
of order. 

A genius in her own right.  And I lost her.  I didn’t even realize how important she was to me until I did.
  I guess I’ll explain that later.  Back to the problem of the day.  Fuck.  The problem of the rest of time, unless something drastic changes.  The Zombie problem.  There.  I used the word, and if you laugh, then it’s years later and the problem is just a footnote in history.

And you have no fucking idea how
insane it really was.

*****

I pulled up to 45 Randall Street in Gainesville at 8:42.  Light was fading with the fast dropping sun, now a glow on the horizon.  I’d wanted to get there earlier, but I was there now, and that was all that mattered.  I threw the transmission into park when I slid to a stop ten feet from the door.

The screen door
was closed, but the front door remained open.  There was something splattered on the screen and I ignored it as I had all the bad signs along the way. 

“Jamie!” I yelled, slamming the door of the truck as I sprinted toward the house.  I looked around.  Her house was isolated from the neighbors by virtue of her acre lot and a heavy growth of trees all around.  The single streetlight on the gravel road just at the entrance of her driveway was just flickering into life as the sun dropped completely.  No lights were on in the house, but I could still see okay; the sky still glowed a light blue, but would soon fade to a moonless black.

I felt the .38 in the back of my pants, but I didn’t reach for it.  It was Jamie and Jack’s house, for God’s sake.  I’d never need it here.  I approached the front porch and jumped the steps, landing outside the door.  I grabbed the screen door handle and my hand immediately became wet with something cold, slick.

I pulled back suddenly, and rubbed my fingers together. 
The wetness felt familiar.  It was dark inside now, and I couldn’t see through the netting of the screen, so I wiped my hand on my jeans and pulled the door open.  As I took two steps into the room my hand fell on the light switch, and I flipped it to the ‘on’ position.