All chapters in the “Hunger” series

Chapter Six

Horst was the first to open fire into the oncoming crowd of Ornel’s former inhabitants. The round from his K98 Mauser slammed into the throat of an limping, groaning man and whipped his head back like it had been hit with a board, spinning him partially around. But within seconds he had turned towards the makeshift barrier blocking the road and continued his advance. Burkhardt glared at him. “Dumpfkoff! Scharfuhrer Dietl told you to aim for the head! We’ve only got a few rounds between us!”  (more…)

‘To bottomless perdition, there to dwell’

For a few seconds he dozed in that wonderful head space between consciousness and unconsciousness. He was warm and well rested, the Egyptian cotton enveloping his form. Then, one by one, each fresh injury made itself apparent. There was a slightly twisted knee here, a bruised and slashed shoulder there, a jaw ache, and a muscular twinge under his shoulder blades. The peaceful feeling left him and he tried to turn over to see if that orientation was more comfortable. As he turned a pain shot through his cheek and he realised the pillow was stuck to his face, a consequence of the weeping graze from his fall from the estate wall. The plasma had formed a crust inter-weaved with the soft fabric of the expensive down pillows. (more…)

SEQUEL TO PART 2

I watched as a patch of bog, brown on brown, oozed like lumpy liquid from a drainage ditch. It took me a moment to recognise it as human. I wasn’t sure if it was some lost, crawling corpse or if it was that little teenage waste of space. To my joy it was the latter. I didn’t realise it but I’d actually been looking forward to this. I moved deeper into the shadows and watched him crawl across the open ground and into the trees. The eejit must have thought he was invisible because of the mud; John feckin Rambo. I let him come.

Once again the pine needles dampened my footfalls nicely as I ran at him from behind, but at the very last second he heard me and turned; startled. He only had time to raise his machete in self-defence before I shattered his wrist with the bog oak. The blade went flying. I rotated with the swing and burst his nose flat on the return journey. He hit the ground without bending and didn’t move after that. (more…)

SEQUEL TO PART 1

I hadn’t pumped near enough juice to keep us in the air for more than a few minutes. We could land safely anywhere; in a nearby field or something, but we’d never take off again with empty tanks. We didn’t want to lose the Cessna so we had to return and finish our refuel. Weeks beforehand we had discussed the possibility of this very situation and we developed a procedure to deal with it.

“D’you remember the plan?” Greg shouted. I sat on the floor where the right hand seat should have been and tightened my leg straps. He poked at the fuel gauge to illustrate the gravity of our situation. “Just coax them away from the runway long enough for me to land. You’ve already kung-fu’d over half of them so the rest are probably quite demoralised already. Keep out of their mitts and I’ll be down directly!” (more…)

I’m Richie, and this is my little brother Greg. I’m the eldest and he’s the youngest. We’re all that’s left of the five Byrne brothers – but you know the way it is; you know the story. The other three are dead I imagine; dead and wandering in Canberra, in London and in Vancouver, along with their families. But I try not to think about it; it’s too unsettling.

We’re in a bit of a mess at the moment, Greg and I. I’m sitting in the pilot’s seat of our parked Cessna 206 and I’m waiting for the first glimmer of light to wash into the eastern sky. When it does I’ll attempt to drag this aircraft skywards for one final flight. Hopefully to a place where Greg can get some help. He’ll be okay if he’s seen to; he’ll pull through, but I fully expect to be dead by this afternoon. Thankfully he’s out cold, I think, and unaware that I’m fatally damaged, but I can’t turn around to see. Quite frankly I don’t believe I’ll ever leave this seat alive, no matter what. (more…)

Hue Citadel, Republic of Vietnam.

May, 1968.

I’m not going to deny it. I absolutely love this shit. Tim Page said it best when he told some REMF reporter asshole back in Saigon, “Some folks had happy childhoods. The rest of us had Vietnam.” Truer words were never spoken. This place is hotter than hell, malaria is everywhere, the bugs are everywhere, and you can’t trust a goddamned soul when it comes to the locals. Our own government is supporting the most corrupt pile of sonsabitches that ever drew breath, but to tell you the truth? Hell, I’d rather be here than covering some jive-ass assignment back in the World.   (more…)

Continued from Part 1

The Stryker careened around the corner and the men inside, packed so tightly that they could barely breathe, swayed back and forth into each other. It was an uncomfortable ride, but not a one of them would’ve preferred the alternative. The Gunny couldn’t really see much, locked as he was in the mass of men packed into the APC but he did spot some few details as it continued to roar away from the crowd of dead left behind. (more…)

Sequel to Part II

I rationalize my serial theft from the quiet crypts of civilization by imagining myself as the inheritor of all those now dust. Perhaps not me, an old man, a relic, but Ferlita, at least. It is she who stands some chance of seeing our species coming back from the brink, she the one who may lead us back into the light.

The pattern of larceny, once begun, grows easier with repetition. The Kinneys, strange as we were, earned what we took, and were proud of standing on our own two feet. Aside from our trophies, we hated to borrow, rejected help, and bought only those things which we couldn’t gain by direct action. My primary action now is to think of things I can rob from the community chest and ways I can use those items to prosecute a war perhaps only myself and Ferlita have formally declared. (more…)

Sequel to Part I

I don’t know how they hone in on their game. The workings of zombies are too esoteric for me, but I can tell you that within their cold husks, there are, indeed, workings. I bring the Suburban to a halt and pop my door. I reach back into the back seat and bring out the M14, inserting a magazine and ramming it home.

“Doors closed, hands over ears, kiddo,” I tell Ferlita. She puts her small palms over her ears and bites down. I slide the muffs over my own battered ears and sight down toward the hollow in front of my own ancestral house. There are twelve zombies milling about, but recently aroused from their aimless shambling by the sound of my truck’s exhaust. (more…)

“Jesus Christ, this mud is thick!” said “Mississip” as his left leg became stuck up to his knee in the wet, viscous mud of the swamp that he and his two companions trudged through miserably. The temperature and humidity were so high and the air was so thick, that Mississip’ imagined he really could cut it with the long bayonet attached to the barrel of his Model 1859 Springfield Musket which he struggled to keep dry in the near tropical conditions.

He peeled the grey slouch hat from his head and wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm, which did little more than smear the mud and grime that covered every inch of Mississip’s face. He sighed and pulled at the stuck leg. It started to give and then with a wet slurp the swamp let his leg go and he was free to continue on after the single file line of his two friends. (more…)

Prologue:

“You stand right there for a minute, you son of a bitch. You just abide there and I’ll do what ought to be done.”

My old eyes don’t line up a peep sight like they used to. Something about vision when you pass those sweet years of youth by…it just ain’t happy with settling down to giving you equal perception all through the range. I’m breaking down, but as I steady the M14 over the roof of an abandoned and rusting Hyundai, I can still feel the shot. I take a breath and let half of it out. I squeeze, real gentle. (more…)