Free The Hunger (Book 2): Consumed by Jason Brant

drinking the occasional beer or scotch.  Cass played the piano every night, usually doing something silly that made them all laugh.
    Stories of their past lives flowed between them.
    Cass told them of her former boyfriend troubles and the terrible guilt she held over her father’s death.
    “You couldn’t keep a boyfriend?” Eifort asked, disbelief etched in the lines of her face.
    “Men don’t like it when you’re tougher than they are,” Cass said with a shrug.  “That and I’m a bit of a bitch when I don’t get my way.”
    She drank from a small glass of single malt they’d found in one of the kitchen cabinets.  “When my father died, I hopped from one jerk to the next.  I was angry and bitter, with a scorching case of daddy issues.  I don’t blame anyone for thinking I was a pain in the ass, because I was.”
    “Still are.”  Lance sipped his drink with a wince.  He hated scotch.  He wasn’t even sure why he was drinking it.
    Cass ignored him.  “My artwork wasn’t worth a damn because of the anger I poured into it.  A few of my hippie friends lauded over it, but I had a helluva time selling anything.  So, I stayed with whatever guy I was shacking up with at the time.  I got my shit together last year, for the most part, and found a roommate.  I did a fairly decent job of paying my bills and avoiding assholes, until all of this went down.”
    “What made you get your act together?” Eifort asked.
    “I got knocked up.”
    Lance choked on his scotch as he took another sip.  “You had a baby?”
    “No, I lost it.”
    “I’m so sorry.”  Eifort patted the back of Cass’ hand with her own.
    Cass shrugged and polished off her scotch.  “Life’s a bitch.”
    They shared more stories as they all tied one on during their second afternoon at the house.  All of them came with their own baggage, though Brown’s was the most noble—he avoided personal relationships by devoting his life to helping the sick.
    Hearing him explain about the wreckage his life had become made Lance feel small.  His world had imploded as well, but he’d plodded along life’s beaten path in an entirely different manner.
    Brown devoted his time to helping others.  It was a worthy distraction from his personal troubles.  Even ten years on, it was apparent to everyone that the doc still missed his wife.
    Lance, on the other hand, wallowed in self-pity, not wanting to leave his apartment.  At one point, he thought his ass had grown into his recliner, fusing them together like some kind of new species.
    Eifort’s first name was Megan.  Lance had chuckled when he realized that he hadn’t learned the woman’s full name in the week and a half they’d been together.  It made him appreciate how little things like names or occupations mattered anymore.
    She had nothing but contempt for her ex-husband, practically spitting his name as she recounted the fallout when she’d returned home from deployment.  The separation had been bitter and soul sucking.
    As the booze got to her head, she grew more relaxed, hiding her feelings for Brown less and less.
    She was the only one who called him Emmett.
    During their third day at the farm, Lance found a compact, windup radio in the gunroom.  They all sat on the porch at noon and listened as The Wildman of Monroeville warned that the Minutemen were on the move again.
    The group had split, with three quarters of them slowly migrating east.  They travelled in a zigzagging pattern, as if they searched for something.  Lance hoped they weren’t going to Greensburg to destroy another safe zone.
    The other quarter skirted the edges of the city, scavenging for supplies and vehicle parts.  They killed hundreds of the infected as they moved during the day.
    Wherever the man on the radio was, he always seemed to have a good view of what happened in the streets.
    The four of them discussed what they should do about the group headed by the insane Ralph.  No one could come up with