Dead Hunger III: The Chatsworth Chronicles (2 page)

I knew that’s where the good stuff was hidden, out of sight of the authorities, and I knew someone had dropped off more inventory for him – and me.  As long as all the parts to a particular gun were there, even if just thrown in a box, I had the patience, even as a young fellow, to straighten, polish and reassemble them.  I never had bullets,
which were almost as difficult to obtain as the weapons themselves,
but I had
no
doubt they would operate perfectly.  Specification manuals, micrometers, calipers, a small air compressor and pneumatic tools for honing cylinders – all the tools of the trade – mostly purchased at my first supply stores, pawn shops.

So in my spare time that’s all I did, and I always had several guns in progress.   If there was no way to fabricate a part for a particular gun, then we’d just search for another of the same type, and eventually I’d find the part I needed in working order.

My father worked in the steel industry which
w
as quite prominent back then in
Rotherham
.  When I was lacking a tiny part, he’d bring home little remainders of steel in various shapes and sizes, and I’d choose from among them for my lump of clay, so to speak.  I would painstakingly grind and polish them until they were suited to my needs. 

When I was done refurbishing a
handgun
or any other type of gun for that matter, my father would pack it inside a secret compartment under the back seat of his car and run it back to
the pawnbroker who had fed him the
pieces, and was paid handsomely for my work.
  My father was committed to keeping those funds separate for my education, and he was diligent about it.

So, when I was seventeen, having graduated from handguns, shotguns and rifles to semi-automatic and automatic weapons of various kinds, my educational fund was well filled. 

Of course we
could not change the way we lived, for it would do nothing but draw undue attention.
 
So in a box, hidden in the floor,
for years and years
went my university fund.

Ultimately, we had claimed I had received a scholarship from the
Georgia Institute of Technology
, where I would study mechanical engineering.  We carried that a bit further, also claiming the receipt of a scholarship at
Johns Hopkins Bloomberg School of Public Health
, where I eventually secured
my epidemiology degree.

I was an excellent student, so nobody had any difficulty believing his story.  I was traveling to
America
to attend University, and my family was proud. 
My schooling involved years of
effort and hard work
.  But it was very worth it in retrospect.

As for my accent, I could have lost it.  The thing was, when I arrived in
America
, I was far beyond where many stu
dents were, and for some reason
my British accent seemed to inspire people to listen to me.  I’m not sure why.  Americans seem to have some fas
cination with those with
British accents, attributing either intelligence or some sort of
coolness
to them. 

In my case
I assume it was
solely intelligence. 
I didn’t fight it
,
for it
was effective, so despite some teasing in my earlier years, the accent remains and it is beyond the point that I’d even worry about disguising it.

Now, the truth about my parents. 
It’s not a big deal or a revelation, but I wanted to say it.

I was speaking on the phone with them the
day before
I met
Flex
and Gem.
  The
very
morning
before
, in fact.

My mum and dad
were describing the same horrible
things that I would soon discover were going on here in
America
, only it began in the m
ines there a day or two before.  They explained to me that upon running a car of miners
up
from deep in the mine at Maltby
in South Yorkshire, just seven miles from where they lived in
Rotherham
, something went terribly wrong.

They were the canaries in a coal mine.  Literally.  The forebear
s
of all that we’ve see happen since.  Deeper underground than anyone else, subject to the zombie gas before
the general population.

The men
t
hat came up in the car were
no longer
men.  Not anymore. 
But it took a few precious minutes for the people waiting for them above ground to figure that out. 
They were, as describe
d by the miners on the surface, insane
.  V
icious
, attacking men with no concern
with and no awareness 
of anything around them
.

They caught
many of their coworkers on the surface
by surprise.  Nobody knew their outs
tretch arms were to grab
and attack
people, p
ull them in
and eat them.  With their black faces, i
t was not easy to tell their skin had become white-grey beneath; they looked like any other miners, except, people reported, for their eyes.  Something had definitely
changed about
them
, but nobody noticed changes that they had no reason to look for.

Not until they began biting.  Before that they assumed that some hugs were needed after a long day in the mine, according to my mother.

When I had spoken to my mum,
she told me the next day
nothing else had been reported.  The news had gone silent on the miner story, and no public health warnings
had been
issued. 

When she told me the story it was with fascination, nothing else.  There was no concern, no fear.  Just a matter-of-fact, strange-but-true story.

And then she told me of her headache.
  Her very, very bad headache.  
Of course, good son that I am,
I suggested she take a couple of aspirin
or Tylenol
and
get some rest
.

Turns out my mum wasn’t immune to urushiol.  That’s my guess anyway. 
I had
a
mobile
phone in that jail cell, too, and it worked for a while, even in there.  But calls to my mum and dad never resulted in an answer.

I left a message, that I fear will forever go
unheard
. 
As for my father, either
my mum
attacked
him or he wasn’t immune either. 
While I don’t want to make any assumptions about whether they’re dead or alive, all I know is that I love and miss them terribly.  It had
been nearly six years since I’d seen them before I locked myself in
that jail cell in Tallahassee to escape people very similar to the zombie miners in Maltby, Sheffield.

N
ow the outbreak was no longer just the mystery of the miners.   It is the mystery of our time.

So I suppose it was easier to tell Flex and Gem that my parents had
died, without really specifying when or how.  I knew they had too much consideration to ask, assuming I’d tell them when I was ready.

I love them, so I’ll probably tell them sometime. 
In the meantime, I can talk about everything with my Charlie, and that’s good enough. 
It’s hard not knowing if your parents are alive or dead, even when, in your heart, you believe the latter to be more likely.  It occasionally takes hold of my emotions and distracts me from the many tasks ahead. 

I’ve got n
o brothers or sisters
and with
my parents likely dead
, I would be utterly alone if not for my wife and my new friends
. 

Now
I suppose
it’s time
I stopped dawdling and
got on
with telling you about
my
beginning in this new world
.

Chapter 1

After hanging up the phone, I was a bit worried about my
M
um.  Dad sounded
okay, but she sounded irritable, tired
and in pain.  I hoped she too
k
my
advice about some
painkillers
and went to bed.  If so, it might have been the
first time she
ever
listened to me.

It was the weekend, the Saturday before the proverbial shit hit the fan, and since I’d lived relatively close to it for so many years without seeing it, I decided that alone or not, I was driving down to
Florida
to
see the
Kennedy
Space
Center
.
 
Bruce Willis was also going to be performing with his blue
s
band, so it seemed like worthwhile trip. 
Plus they were going to have a
n open air
showing of
the film
Armageddon after.  I was up for a mo
vie
too, and since
I thought
Willis
was
a
pretty
good actor
,
I
was interested in hearing what kind of musician he was.
  I
decided to go all out, so I arranged a
hotel for the night.

I like the blues as much as any Brit.

I lived in
Fort Valley
,
Georgia
,
in a nice two-story brick house, and while it was a beautiful tree-lined area that really felt like a neighborhood,
unless I was working I tended to get
bored to death. 
I mean, a guy can only take so many walks
by himself
.

I decided
that since there were only
a few minor roads before I hit
Interstate 75
, before I knew it,
I’
d be pulling into
Orsino
,
Florida
and climbing
around on a
space shuttle for some stimulation.

I put the story my mum had told me in the back of my mind, resolved
to call and check on her later
and I packed a cooler and hit the
highway
.

I didn’t drive anything near as cool as Flex and Gem.  My car was a
2004
Toyota
Camry
, but it was in good repair and it got decent miles per gallon of petrol. 
It was
silver with just a bit of
peeling
paint on the hood and new halogen headlights.  There was good rubber on the tires and I was ready for a road trip.

Since I left on the Saturday, not the Sunday
when everything really
went to crap, things seemed mostly normal.  Some things, some early indicators if you will,
caused
me
to
stop at the police station.  I’ll explain.

I never made it to Orsino.  Turns out some of this began the day before.

The drive was uneventful for the most part.  I had brought an MP3 player loaded up with my favorite music, mostly The Who and lots of Beatles.  My favorite album was Revolver, and that, along with The White Album, usually got me where I needed to go.  But in this case I had to get into a bit of Who’s Next, particularly
Going Mobile
.

The first sign of trouble appeared to me more of a domestic dispute, and the police were already on the scene when I passed.  There was a man outside of his car leaning inside, and from his movements I could tell me was angry.  Thrashing about, he was, and a woman in the passenger side of the car was slapping at him.

He seemed undeterred.  The police car had pulled up and the officer was approaching the car shouting warnings with his gun drawn.  I would’ve snapped a quick picture, because it’s rare to see an officer with his gun out of its holster, but as usual I was too late and already well past by the time my phone was in hand.

I can guess now what was happening. 
As I sat in that jail cell, having discovered
in earnest that the situation
was widespread and quite serious,
I thought about that woman in the car a lot.  I hoped ther
e were no children in the back seat.  I
hadn’t
see any
.  While it still prays on my mind, the fact is I hadn’t
thought of it at the time, and regrets are useless for things you cannot change
.