Hunger is My Name

Eileen and I had been hold up in our second story apartment for about two weeks. Mandatory lockdown.

At first we’d thought, “Here we go again! Another pandemic scare. La-de-da!” — just like almost everybody else.

And who could blame us? After the bumbling response and conflicting information that surrounded the COVID-19 outbreak back in ’19 and ‘20?

So we settled in and looked at it like an in-house vacation. The delivery services were working and we ordered out every day, even booze. And we played endless hours of video games, and binged on streaming videos.

That was last week. This week, no one showed up when we put in our grocery order and no one answered the phone when we called to complain. That’s when we decided to put on the news.

The poor newscaster on CNN looked haggard, her voice tired and strained. No amount of makeup could cover up the dark bags under her eyes. Or maybe they hadn’t even tried.

Reports coming in had become spotty, with fewer and fewer sources coming through, like everyone had gone MIA.

The last official numbers of infected people were astronomical. The disease spread at a rate that they described as unfathomable.

The next day is when things really went sideways.

Or I should say, the next night.

We were awakened sometime after midnight by a ruckus outside in the street. We heard glass shattering, and not too far away, gun shots, followed by more breakage and occasional shouts. There were no sirens, no official response.

I peeked out the window that overlooks the street. Below me, a crowd of people had gathered and apparently broken into the store beneath us. Our apartment is right above a store that sells women’s clothing. Apparently, they didn’t find what they were looking for, though several mannequins and odds and ends of garments had been drug out of the building and cast into the street. They began to shuffle off to the next building and the next store.

From my angle, I couldn’t make out much of their features, but I could tell the crowd consisted of men and women, and people of many different sizes, both in girth and in height. I could see blonde hair and afros and bald heads as well.

They all moved with the same side-to-side step that resulted in dragging feet. It reminded me of the living dead of Hollywood — zombies, I guess. Of course, that’s ridiculous. Zombies are fantasy and this was real life.

Every night after that first night, the marauders came back. Sometimes they traveled on the opposite side of the street, sometimes they crowded down the alleyway between us and the building next door.

We have a fire escape into that alley, so the next morning, I made sure it was chained so that no one could pull it down and gain access to our apartment.

During the day, people began to venture into the streets. I watched them from the window, as stealthily as I could. Most were armed and began to pick through the same smashed up stores the night raiders had hit.

These people were normal. They walked like us. They were obviously not infected. They were in survival mode.

Yesterday morning, a gun battle erupted just down the street. A small band of scroungers attempted to breach an apartment not unlike our own. The owner defended his home with a spray of bullets that took out two of the would-be robbers and wounded another.

They left the dead and dragged the wounded one away. They would most likely be back. At least, that’s what my gut told me.

Today, I realized that we were running low on food.

We had no choice. I was going to have to venture out into the Wild West our streets had become.

I had to find food and bring it back without being shot or robbed and do it while it was still day, because at night, the infected roamed the streets.

Although she complained sorely, and begged to come with me, I convinced Eileen she should stay. Someone would have to lock and unlock the fire escape. We’d had nailed the doors shut, both the one into our apartment, and the one at the foot of the stairs. Then we heaved a heavy bookcase in front of it. The fire escape was our only way in and out.

I kissed her goodbye and she wished me luck as I stepped onto the ladder and descended with it down into the alleyway.

I never believed in guns, so I was not armed, though I sorely wished I was.

I also don’t condone stealing, but couldn’t think of an alternative. One must survive.

At the end of the alley, I cautiously examined the street in both directions. Seeing no one, I stepped out onto the sidewalk and began making my way in the opposite direction from the trigger happy home owner.

Rule One: take from stores or abandoned houses — don’t mess with home owners.

Rule Two: don’t kill. That was a hard and fast rule for me. I am not a killer.

On my back I had our little grocery cart strapped. It was one of those collapsible contraptions you see people toting their groceries home on the bus.

Of course, there were no buses. And really, not many grocery stores to speak of in our neighborhood. There was a bodega a mile away, or maybe two, but I imagined it had already been picked over.

As I made my way down the street, I heard a noise and ducked inside a doorway, looking out to see what it had been. A man and a woman, across the street and a little way down, had just come out a door. It probably opened onto a stairway to an upstairs apartment. He had a rifle slung over his shoulder and she wore a sidearm.

I withdrew as far back into the shadows as I could, thinking it best not to be seen.

They turned and went the same way I was going, so I waited until they turned left at the next street and disappeared from sight.

With a sigh of relief, I renewed my journey. Unlike them, I continued straight, crossing the side street after carefully surveying for any movement.

Most of the stores had their windows broken, but surprisingly, not all. All sorts of businesses existed along this stretch of 57th, not all of them catering to consumers, per se. Some were professionals, like architects, and lawyers. Some were organizations, like the local for some union, and another was an oddball museum of Lithuanians in America or something like that.

By the time I reached the bodega, I had had to duck and hide half a dozen times. Once I passed an alley and came face to face with an old man who was as scared as I.

He clutched his chest and let out a startled shout, then turned and ran off down the alleyway.

I stood across the street from the bodega for several minutes, studying the situation. The windows had been shattered and debris strewn across the sidewalk in front of the store. Lights were on still, the ones that stay on for safety sake, illuminating the interior in a gloomy half-light.

A corpse lie face down, half-in and half-out of the store, across the low window sill. Another corpse lay on its back just inside the window, a gaping hole in his chest. Probably a shotgun blast up close and personal.

I measured the risks against the highly unlikely chance that there’d be any food left in that building considering the scene before me. But there were no signs of others on the street here. All the action happened yesterday, per the state of the bodies — dried blood, no stench.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. I moved quickly across the street and stepped over the first corpse. It was then that I noticed he had dropped the very shotgun that must have done in the second body. I picked it up. It was a breach loaded, double-barrel affair and so had to be loaded for every shot.

I patted the man’s pockets, even rolled him over and found he had a fanny pack loaded with shotgun shells, and even some regular bullets that looked like they were made to fire with the same gun. I unclipped it and fastened it about my own waist, then loaded the gun, set the safety and slung if over my shoulder. Better to be prepared.

Beside the shotgun victim lay another gun, this one some sort of pistol. He had no holster, but his pockets held a couple of loaded clips. I put them in my pockets and shoved the gun in my belt.

Now I felt better prepared.

I stood up and focused on the interior of the bodega for the first time. The shelves had been picked clean of any food. The only things left were household products and miscellaneous items the owners must have thought might catch a shoppers eyes, such as sunglasses, and cup holders for your car.

I made my way to the back in hopes that I might find something everyone else had overlooked. In the back room, I found the freezer door ajar, with blood pooled on the floor in the doorway. There was no body to explain the blood and there was nothing in the freezer but empty boxes. The freezer still hummed along, blowing cold air out into the room.

Poking around the back, kicking through boxes heaped up in one corner, I found a rack of dented cans and crushed boxes. Obviously waiting to be returned for credit or handed off to some charity.

I felt like I’d won the lottery. Slipping the cart of my back, I began loading the cans and boxes in. I didn’t take time to look too closely at the contents. Food is food and beggars can’t be choosers, as they say. I had the feeling I’d eat just about anything in the days that lay ahead.

I had just finished loading the cart when I heard a noise at the front of the store. It sound like people talking.

I had no desire to share, nor did I want to have a gun battle, so I pushed the cart into the corner and began to pile boxes in front of it, as quietly as I could.

There was a built in ladder on the side of the freezer so the motor could be accessed. I climbed up and lay down, unslinging the shotgun and placing the pistol close to hand. If I lifted my torso up just a bit, I could peer down over the edge. Satisfied I was as well hidden as I could be, I waited.

I could make out two voices, at first, a man and a woman. They were moving closer, bit by bit. Just before they entered the back room, another set of voices piped in. These sounded younger, teenagers, maybe?

The man shouted, “Get out of here! We got here first!”

The answer was a volley of gunfire, and soon, war broke out, with shots being traded between the front of the store and the back. I heard a grunt and the man called out, “Alisha!”

Then rapid fire, as the man apparently rushed the youths. He succeeded in driving them off, or killing them all, I couldn’t tell which. But I heard him return to Alisha and cursing, then crying. I imagined he held her. Then I heard nothing for the longest time.

Until a single shot rang out and a thud, as of something heavy hitting the floor.

I waited and waited, slowly putting the story together in my head. She must have died in the battle and in despair, he must have taken his own life. Convinced I was right, I finally found the courage to climb down.

Looking out the door, I saw the same couple I’d seen earlier on my way here. She lay slumped against the meat counter. His body sprawled across the aisle, a gun on the floor beside him in his still pooling blood.

I shuddered.

It was then that I noticed how dark it had become outside. The sun was setting and I had quite a way to go to get home.

I quickly drug the cart out from behind all the boxes and stepped around the fresh corpses, not bothering to disarm either.

At the front of the store, one kid sat against the checkout stand, his opened eyes unseeing. Bullet casings lay scattered all over the floor.

I made my way into the street and began running as fast as I could with a cart of groceries trailing behind me. The apartment was at least a mile and a half away and it would take me fifteen minutes to get there, ten if I was lucky.

I was in such a hurry, I didn’t bother to check for anything dangerous ahead. The danger of nightfall contained all my fears.

About four blocks from the apartment, the stupid cart lost a wheel. They were those silly plastic things and just weren’t made for a cross-country run.

The wheel popped off and cart careened hard to the left, and jerked out of my grip, spewing half my groceries on the sidewalk. The light had become so dim already that I could barely see to gather them back up.

Once reloaded, I began again, but with the cart dragging I couldn’t move as quickly and on top of that, it made the most dreadful noise, announcing to all the world that I was coming.

Two blocks away, I was halfway down the block and about to cross an alley, when several figures stepped out in front of me.

It was already dark and the light from the corner street light too far away to provide much light.

But it was enough for me to see that there was something dreadfully wrong with their faces. As they moved towards me, it was with that feet dragging stagger and I knew these were the infected, the night raiders.

I veered to the right, off the sidewalk and into the street. Surely anyone that walks like that couldn’t outrun me, even loaded down with groceries.

There were more of them coming from across the street, and blocking the way ahead of me.

I turned, thinking I’d go back to the corner and make my way around the block to cut through the alleyway to my apartment.

There were more behind me.

I unslung the shotgun and took aim at the nearest one.

“Step back, or I’ll shoot!” I said. “I swear it!”

They continued moving towards me.

All of them.

I pulled the triggers — first one, then the other.

The blasts smashed against my shoulder and threw first one, then another of the things backwards.

I fumbled with the zipper on the fanny pack, but they were getting too close. Using the gun like a club, I began swinging at the closest ones. It engaged a couple of them with satisfying thumps.

Then I felt hands on my back, pulling me backwards.

I pulled free, grabbed the pistol from my belt and opened fire in rapid succession. I fired in every direction until the gun clicked.

For a moment, they had shrunk back, but as I tried to reload, they closed in on me.

I felt a bite on my neck as I sank to the ground.

My last thought, “I need to get back to Eileen!”

Then nothing.

I opened my eyes. All was darkness. I sensed bodies around me, moving gently, rocking in place.

I could smell them. All about me. Pressing together, surrounding me, rocking in place.

The rhythm comforted me and I began to rock back and forth, moving in concert with the press of bodies.

Hunger. Rising from within me. Deep, ravenous hunger swept over me, taking over my senses.

I must eat. I must find food. Now!

I rose to my feet and everyone around me rose, as well.

I moved forward. We all moved forward, making our way through the darkness.

Ahead a light shone and I stopped, shrinking back. It pierced my eyes and hurt my head. We ducked and bobbed, hiding our heads, turning our backs.

We waited, rocking back and forth in place. Waiting for the light to fade, the terrible, burning light.

All around me, we began to grunt and moan, impatient.

I opened my mouth and added my voice to the concert, my tongue unsure of what to do. No words would come forth, only grunts and moans.

I rocked back and forth, shifting from one foot to the other, rhythmically, comfortingly, waiting.

Soon enough, darkness came and we pressed forward, exiting from the building within which we had taken shelter, a parking garage below street level.

As we came up into the open air, we began to shuffle together, heading down the street to the right.

Hungry! So hungry! We began to sniff and test the air in search for food.

Somehow I knew that this is what we did every night. We never stayed in the same place twice.

We would search everywhere, looking for food. Sometimes we would find it. More often than not, we took shelter with our bellies crying for food.

At first it had been easy. Food had been everywhere. But every time we feasted, there was less to eat the next time.

Besides, our prey had become wiser. They learned to avoid us and became harder and harder to find and to catch.

Ah! There it was! That sweet smell of living, juicy flesh.

We shifted down a side street, following our nose.

As we drew nearer, some began to peal off to the right and to the left, circling around to cut off our prey’s escape routes.

I could almost taste the flesh, although I had never feasted on human flesh before. Somehow I knew.

It wasn’t the flesh, really. It was the blood, running down our chin, swallowing the salty sweetness.

We turned down the next street and found the place. Here there was food.

It was a two-story building, a house, really. It had once been a home, but now sported a bookstore. A light in the upper window indicated that someone probably lived above the store.

We could smell them. There were at least three of them. A man and two women.

We shuffled up to the house, surrounding it. Reaching out, we grabbed at whatever we could grab and pulled, looking for something that would give way and give us entry.

Some pounded at the windows. Others tried the doorknobs. In the back, an old wooden hatch covered a basement entrance. It was locked, but the wood was rotting.

Many hands grasped at the handle, at the lock, at the hinges, pulling, pulling, pounding, beating the wooden hatch.

Finally a tearing sound announced our success and we pulled with renewed vigor. The hinges gave way and the hatch lifted, exposing a dark stairwell.

Soon we shuffled and stumbled down the steps, one after another, crowding into a dark basement, smelling of dampness and mildew and coal dust.

We moved through the room until another stair was found, this one going up, into the house.

We crowded up the stairs and began to pull and pound and scratch at the door.

A loud bang sounded, and three of us fell back against the press of bodies. With nowhere to fall, they stood, their heads and chests broken open.

Now there was a hole in the door and we reached through and began to pull away chunks of splintered wood.

Another shot rang out, and two more fell back.

More frantic, we tore at the door, rending it into pieces until one of us could duck down and climb through.

Inside there was a scuffle, but another of us followed, and another followed that one until the hallway became crowded and we pressed forward again, following the smell of flesh and blood.

The scent led us up the stairs to the second floor.

As we stepped onto the top landing, another shot hit no one, and then a door ahead slammed shut.

We shuffled in earnest towards the door, hitting it with all our force, again grabbing, kicking, hitting, and pulling at the wood.

It was the frame that gave way first, and shortly, we had pulled off all the moulding and began working on the casement.

Inside the room, there were several gun shots, but nothing hit the door. As we ripped it from its place in the wall, we entered the room to find three bodies, two women upon the bed and a man slumped against the bed and nightstand, a pistol still in his hand.

With a rush, we moved forward, tearing at the bodies. There was nothing to save here so it was a free-for-all, as limbs were ripped from the bodies and passed back through the crowed, each one taking a bite and sucking at the blood, still warm with life.

Those who had eaten moved to the back, making our way downstairs, while others moved to the front to get their share.

My stomach found momentary peace as the fresh blood and bits of flesh slid down my esophagus.

After that feast, we moved on, looking for more. Our hopes buoyed by the easy meal we’d just consumed.

The night grew old and we had no more success and began to look instead for a shelter for the day, someplace dark and inviting like a womb.

As we made our way down the street, there was something familiar about this place, this particular stretch of road. We halted in front of a storefront we’d visited before. Above it, the smell of fresh food, a woman by the scent.

We had tried to get in before, but had no luck, so we dismissed it, and began moving down the street.

I found myself lingering, dropping behind. Something so familiar pulled at me.

I looked up at the window. The shade went up and a woman looked down, her face filled with great sadness.

Pulling open the window, she shouted, “Jacob! Jacob! I love you!”

The words washed over me, stirring within me an old feeling.

Eileen.

I remembered. I have to get back to Eileen!

I could smell her from here. That comfortable smell of lavender and freshly washed hair.

But there was also the smell of her flesh and the blood pulsing through her veins. They too called out to me.

My stomach stirred and my heart sank.

I reached out my hand and tried to call out her name, but my tongue tripped over itself and all that came out was a series of grunts.

There was no going back. I knew it and I think she knew it, too.

Turning away, I shuffled after the crowd, taking my place with them.

I didn’t look back.