Life has become "Zombified" The air itself carries death or worse. A few hardy, starving souls band together to try to make sense of Life's new rulebook while holding on to what little "humanity" they have left. Husk: A Tale of Human Hunger is a book that examines Life's incomprehensible, insatiable and cannibalistic need to consume life. Set in the oddest zombie apocalypse imaginable, it follows the paths of several starving characters, all precariously balanced between lack and plenty, in their never ending search for more "food" After the reader is finished with this story, they may have to ask themselves an uncomfortable question: "Am I alive, dead . . . or neither" Husk: A Tale of Human Hunger is the first book in a trilogy. The second book will take the story in a whole new direction, resolving many of the conflicts left open in Husk. Expect the second book sometime in the summer . . . if the world survives! Husk: A Tale of Human Hunger deals with mature subject matter, has strong language and is intended for a mature audience. The main theme of the novel is the overriding emptiness in all people (for food, stuff, power, love, you name it) which is never questioned and can seemingly never be filled. The trilogy hopes to expose the alternative. Like an unexpected olive pit on unsuspecting martini-teeth, Husk is intended to unsettle, both with its subject matter and style. The author hopes you enjoy the zombie apocalypse and disease he has constructed. He also hopes you appreciate the pre-existing human condition that puts anything the zombies could hope to accomplish to shame. www.huskbook.com Facebook/huskatale #huskbook

HUSK

A Tale of Human HungerBy Jonathan Logan Donovan

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2012 Jonathan Logan Donovan
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4772-8354-7

Contents

Parched...........................................ix1. Froth..........................................32. Preserve.......................................83. Trash..........................................174. Crumble........................................235. False Start....................................266. Pre-Approved...................................407. Seep...........................................468. Hand Off.......................................499. The Last Good Man on Earth.....................5410. Ration........................................7211. Zero Down.....................................7512. Frayed........................................8013. Barbed........................................9014. Pasture.......................................9715. Shreds........................................10616. Scraps........................................11517. Gristle.......................................12118. Shrapnel......................................13219. Odds..........................................14320. Ends..........................................15321. Shards........................................15822. Shatter.......................................16123. Disposable....................................16624. Pest..........................................18725. Leftovers.....................................19826. Collapse......................................20327. Render........................................20828. Mend..........................................21329. Clogged.......................................21930. Jagged........................................22831. Mince.........................................23432. Shackles......................................24233. Weeds.........................................25534. Ruin..........................................27135. Pinch.........................................27536. Rubble........................................27737. Weathered.....................................28038. Stalk.........................................29239. Asunder.......................................29940. Plowed........................................30541. Knit..........................................31342. Cracks........................................31643. Dissolve......................................33144. Wither........................................334

Chapter One

Froth

* * *

Leo turned his radio off with a "snickt" and a "hrrmmmmph."

"God damn announcers know jack shit about the game of football. We're about to have a perfect season and they still pick the other team to win?! Damn it, Karen, why do they do that? Too many rookies on the team? What the hell do they want, eighty year old starters in wheelchairs eating prunes? God, they piss me off!"

Karen watched her husband of twenty-five years dress for the game, the same way she had for all their years together as man and wife. The only thing that had changed from season to season was the number on the front and back of the jersey. Leo was not a fickle fan. Karen was convinced that he wanted to be buried in that ratty, beer-smelly thing. She smiled at the thought of it.

The first season home game was his favorite day of the year and, during the two weeks leading up to it, Leo acted like a little kid. He whistled and played boyish pranks around the house. She liked excited little Leo. It reintroduced some rack-spice into their marriage.

This Sunday, though, was different. Karen was worried. Leo didn't have his usual exuberance. No pep in his step. He was going through the motions but he wasn't feeling well. Karen could always tell when he was under the weather. Summer had shifted wind-whiskedly into a cold and frigid Fall. The windows at night whined and shook with the force of the wind. She had been hounding him for days to see a doctor but Leo was nothing if not stubborn. Even though she was concerned, Karen didn't want to spoil the end of his season by insisting he stay home and miss the game.

"Your temperature was a hundred and two last night, Leo. I'm not nagging! I just want you to think about staying home today. You could hardly get out of bed this morning." Karen nagged despite her denial.

"I've never missed a game and I'll be damned if I do today. No early-autumn bug is going to keep me away from a possible 12-0 season." Leo put an end to the discussion with a shake of his head and a look away.

Leo, or Lenny as his friends called him, put on his number eleven jersey at almost the exact same minute that he had for the past twenty-five years. Sunday was his day. No one could tell him where to be, what to do or how to do it. He loved his team. Leo lived and breathed everything Black and Orange. Today, however, his uniform and illness made him look front stoop scooped out and weeks ago, pumpkin-carved candle burnt.

He had posters of his favorite players on the wall of his basement work room. The desktop wallpaper behind his task mastered, always-running fantasy league program was of the legendary quarterback of the '05 season running and throwing across his body. His ring tone was the team's fight song. He had a horrible tattoo of the team logo on his left bicep. He was the perfect fan; the kind that swung on you if you wore different colors and showed up in the wrong part of the tailgate – with or without beer.

Every Christmas, he got team socks, sweaters, mittens and blankets and never once complained. Why would he? He knew the stats, plays, injury reports and college backgrounds of each and every player on the roster. What could he say? He was a die-hard fan.

"If it wasn't for Sparks those announcers wouldn't have jobs and the team wouldn't have a chance to even make it to the playoffs. Perfect example of one man carrying a team. It's like construction, Karen. Most people just show up for the check but there is always one guy who just loves building something—making something meaningful. That's Sparks."

Having risen through the ranks of his construction company, he now enjoyed the title of foreman and milked it for everything he could. After a particularly messy job in Boston where one of his crew had sent an auger straight into some power cables at four in the morning, his boss' kid had called him up to see what he was going to do about it. His boss was old mafia and was to be respected but his kid was being a shit.

"I'll tell you what I'm going to do about it, brat. In the end, it will only cost you about thirteen hundred dollars and I'll have their friggin power back on by two in the p.m. Sound good?" Lenny's voice sounded like a deuce and a half on a gravel road.

The kid said, "Yeah. Sounds fucking good, Leo. Fix this shit and we'll remember."

Leo had the problem corrected by noon and finished the whole job a month ahead of schedule. The company got a big check. True to their word, the company remembered. He got promoted, could spend more time with his family, traveled better and less, stayed at fancier hotels when he did, got bigger jobs and bigger checks. Best of all, he got season tickets. When he opened the envelope containing the tickets he grinned at his wife and said, "I love you and all, but this is the best day of my life."

That had been twenty-five years ago, when he had been a young buck, right after he had married Karen. Now, Leo could feel his age in his bones and felt like the ass end of a dog. He was groggy, had dizzy spells and hawked phlegm like bullets into the sink and toilet bowl. He didn't dare tell his wife how bad he was. She could deliver guilt like a nail-packed and piping hot package-bomb. So he lied and told her not to worry.

He was pretty sure some kid had come to work sick no matter how many times he ordered them not to. He remembered Tony sneezing a few days ago and trying to hide it.

He saw runny shit in the porta-potties and had told the crew, "Jeeezus. I know you young guys need the money but keep that crap away from the work site. That crap in there is just plain wrong, you unhealthy pricks. And I shit you not, if I see the crapper looking like that again I'm going to make you all do your business in the alley. Wipe your ass with your rags or your hands for all I care. Nothing gets done if we're all incapacitated. Take a few days, drink some medicine; I'll keep your jobs open for ya."

Fat lot of good that pep talk had done. He was miserable. His wife babied him as always and tried to convince him to stay home and rest. She had chicken noodle soup and toast for him. She'd bring him warm washcloths for his eyes if he decided to nap all day.

"Dump it all in a thermos, baby. I appreciate it but this is the biggest season of the damn franchise's history. Hell, the biggest season in the history of the league. I'd never forgive myself if I missed it. I can't get more sick now, can I? Right, sweetie? Just get all your womanly cures prepared for me when I come home, OK?"

His wife shook her head at her husband's stubbornness, went into the kitchen and came back with his thermos and a couple of vitamins. She also tossed a scarf at him which he dropped clumsily. When he reached over to pick it up his head swam and he almost lost his balance but he got back up and played it off nonchalantly.

"Don't you worry, wifey. I've had worse. Remember Thanksgiving at Paula's? When I get home we're going to snuggle up and watch some television together. I don't have work again until the fifth of next month. We should go down and see your parents. You'd like that?"

She responded that she would like that very much and left the room. Leo grabbed his keys, opened the front door and descended the stairs to the curb. His hands were shaking so bad he had trouble opening the car door. He dropped his car keys once and it took him a minute to pick them up. While bent over, a stream of snot poured out of his nose and landed in the snow at his feet. It looked like blueberry and butterscotch poured over ice cream in an ash tray. He threw up a little and spit it out by the front tire.

"Jeepers crow, man, this is awful. I'm going to eat that fucking Tony alive next month for handing me this shit. Kids got no sense bringing his funky ass monkey disease to the job. He and me, we're going to have a nice, long fucking chat."

Leo fell into the driver seat and pushed the memory button that adjusted the mirrors and seats in his company Caddy. His wife always messed around with his settings. The guy he saw looking back at him when they realigned looked dead. Fucking dead. He didn't know who this guy was. He looked malarial, like he hadn't eaten in weeks. He looked like one of the hoople heads on the corners sucking cock for smack. He decided to skip the tailgate and go straight to his seat. He didn't want to run into anyone he knew. He didn't want anyone to see him this way.

"Word gets around in the business. Your reputation is all you got. I didn't get season fucking tickets for looking like a trash bag, did I? I got 'em because I deliver. I got 'em because the company looks out for them who look out for the company. Just go to the game, come home and fucking rack out."

Leo turned the key in the ignition and pulled out into traffic. He drove slowly, wiping his nose constantly with the sleeve of his team parka. Once on the highway, he could see the stadium in the distance as his eyes watered a little; from happiness or sickness he couldn't tell. He weaved back and forth across the lanes eliciting long, drawn out honks from the other motorists.

"Yeah, yeah. Fuck yourselves. Not even Death himself could keep me away from this game today. How many times in life do you get a chance to witness the start of a perfect season in person? Not this guy. I ain't no fag. Not this one here. I'm fucking going."

Chapter Two

Preserve

* * *

"Home."

Smiley face.

Since saying good bye to her old life many moons ago, Molly had lived gypsy-skirted, morning glory-gorgeous. She lived, what some would call, a non-traditional life style. Her friends called her "Molly-U-Haully." She had sold the little of what she had after leaving her husband (car, books, artwork, electronics, a few gold coins) and used the funds to purchase an outdated dinosaur of a twenty six foot box truck at an auction for ...

five thousand two hundred and thirteen dollars and eighty-seven cents ...

... which was about eighty percent of her total life savings. She named the truck Pumpkin because of its color and loved how it looked. It was the most beautiful thing she had seen in fifteen years and she couldn't wait to get cracking with the customization.

She immediately took it to a mechanic. She requested a tune-up and fine-tooth combing. She told him she wanted a sun light cut out of the roof and a window on each side of the vehicle precisely where she told him to put them. She also ordered several holes with caps to be drilled through the walls to feed cables and power cords through. Lastly, she asked him to find a way she could lock and unlock the retractable gate from the inside. When she returned a week later the grease monkey proudly stated that it would go, "Another ...

Hundred thousand ...

... miles if you keep it maintained; all fluids topped off and drive it sensibly. The Plexiglas is strong as hell. You won't ever have to worry about someone breaking through it without a blowtorch or buzz saw. You'll at least hear 'em coming, for sure. You got everything you wanted and more, lady."

Molly, inspecting the man's handiwork, said, "It had better! I intend to use all those miles and more! I am tired of roots and area codes. I'm going to see the world, but good advice, my oily knight! I shall heed your dire warnings. You have served me well and it is a debt I can never repay!"

She left the man guffawing with a wad of cash on his tool chest; his hands stuffed inside the straps of his overalls absently rubbing a large, rotund and hairy belly.

* * *

Since her divorce, Molly had entered text land. She shared her experience with all of her online friends via status, web-feed, emails and blog posts. Her loss had becomes Likes – her version of the story—Views. Her lexicon had evolved into a mixture of fantasy gaming and less-is-more leet-speak – easy to thumb-leak or hands free into the intrawebs while driving.

That same day she had walked into her bank and withdrawn the rest of her meager savings. If Molly had been one thing in life it was frugal but she did not have much after thirty-eight years of retail or service jobs. Her he-who-shall-not-be-named ex-husband had brought in most of the family's income and most of it had been lost in the bottomless hole of hydra-headed lawyer, court and other costs. All that money, a lifetime's worth, fee-fell into the pocket-wells of neer-do-well, ambulance-chasing glad handers who promised friend's discounts upon referral. Molly hadn't minded at all. That money was dirty. It was corrupted and she was glad to be rid of it.

"I can't believe I let my life be so preoccupied and bothered by my pocket book. There is so much out here to be enjoyed. The leaves blowing in the wind today and that crisp, autumn burnt smell on the breeze. I was such a fool to stay leashed to that marriage for as long as I was.

Greater than-period-less than wincey face.

"Good riddance to bad rubbish!"

Winkey face.

Her husband had always ridiculed her penny-pinching penchant but she knew deep down he resented it. He saw it as an assault on his ability to provide for the family but she would have done it the same way had they been millionaires.

"Trying to stretch a dollar is not a bad thing. It is just common sense. Why pay full-price for something if you can find it for less? Buy more, pay less!"

Inorite? FFS ... WTF?

Molly had put the remainder of her rubber banded bound funds into a trapper keeper that was also stuffed to bursting with coupons, clippings, discount cards and sayings she had found that helped her keep her chin-up. Her favorites were, "Unto myself, I am sufficient," as well as, "Mess with me all you want but don't mess with my kids." She had written, "Life is not about waiting on the storm to pass. It's about learning to dance in the rain," on the cover of her binder in red marker. She underlined it twice, then a third time and put a cloud sticker above it. The sections inside were divided into check-lists, contacts, calendars, pockets for coupons and such and a dozen other categories that made sense only to her.

She had been all smiles when the teller attempted to convince her to stay with the bank. She had peacefully listened to admonishments about bad long term financial decisions and leaving the security of an FDIC insured bank. She had waited patiently until the teller was out of pleas, handed her the cash ...

Twenty-nine thousand, three hundred and three dollars and fourteen cents ...

... and said, "Thanks! You should go outside. The grass has started turning brown. Fall is here and it is beautiful."

The grass has started turning brown.

It is beautiful.

Exclamation point.

She was never going to be dependent on a man or the system ever again. That had gotten her nowhere fast. It was cruise-no-control-freak frisky time for her and she expected everything to come up roses.

She began the process of converting her bought and paid for U-Haul-It into her new home. She pulled into a car wash and started in the rear. She filled a trashcan with water and dish soap and bleach-mopped, wiped and scrubbed out all the funkiness that had been deposited inside the truck during its time in the fleet. She then hosed down the exterior of the vehicle several times, paying extra-special attention to any stains or gunk that persistently clung-for-dear-life onto the metal brackets and rails on the sides and back gate.

Climbing onto the top, Molly stretched up towards the sky before furiously scraping and toweling the upper-bars. She sprayed scented air freshener throughout the cab and cargo areas, placed gas station, rear-view new-car smell pine cones on every available hook. She stuck and lit a scented candle in the ashtray (Hells Bells, the truck was ancient!) and clapped her hands together.

/golfclap

"Done AND done! You could eat dinner off the floor in there," she said to no one in particular.

Once Molly was satisfied with the cleanliness of her auto-abode she had raced to the store, coupons trailing out of her pockets, purse and binder like price-reduced pony tails, to get her necessities. After taxes and discounts, she spent ...

One thousand, seven hundred and ninety seven dollars and eleven cents.

She had saved ...

seven hundred and fifty dollars and fifty-eight cents ...

... with all her meticulous matching and planning. She was a proud, Pokémon-price match guaranteed to catch all them savings sensei master and as she saw the U-Haul-It come into view once again in the parking lot, with four store helpers pushing carts behind her and more to come, she appeared to all the world a ditzy, over-spender with a mindless, vapid look of pleasure on her face.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from HUSKby Jonathan Logan Donovan Copyright © 2012 by Jonathan Logan Donovan. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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