The Hungry 3: At the End of the World

by Steven W. Booth

  Sheriff Penny Miller leaned forward into her seatbelt. She brushed her red hair aside, cocked her head, and searched Scratch’s craggy face for the slightest trace of humor. “Cut that out, Terrill Lee,” she said, finally. “I do believe the man is serious.”

  Cowed, her ex-husband Terrill Lee stared steadfastly out of the cracked windshield at the looming mountain peaks of Colorado. Sgt. Karl Sheppard, sitting next to Miller on the bench seat, suppressed a wry grin. Miller realized that he was probably thinking the same thing as Scratch. Over the last several weeks on the run, Terrill Lee’s nervous habits had begun to irritate all of them. Terrill Lee was a lousy traveling companion. He told and re-told the same old jokes and ghost stories, and crackled his knuckles, and whined about needing to pee. Humming and whistling Bingo had been the straw that broke the biker’s back. Poor Scratch couldn’t take any more.

  Miller could tolerate a lot of things, zombie hordes and corrupt politicians among them, but she also had to admit she was fed up with the collective male body odor permeating the minivan. She opened the window to let a little fresh air in, but not much cold. It was enough. She longed for a hot bath, or even a quick shower just to get the grime out of her hair and wash her pits and nether regions. She would have happily forgone that pleasure for herself if she could have at least shoved the three cowboys into a body of water with a bar of scented soap. She considered whispering that sentiment to Sheppard, but decided to keep it to herself. He might have taken it a bit too personally.

  The sun popped in and out of the clouds like a kid playing peek-a-boo. They drove on, steadily climbing, twirling around the curling black ribbon of deserted mountain highway. Tall pine trees shot up around them like spikes pointing straight into the beautiful blue skies, a forest proud and healthy and wonderfully immune to the zombie virus currently ravaging the country. Miller never looked back over her shoulder. None of them did.

  Miller watched Scratch. The biker’s sexy, perpetual three-day stubble had now grown into a full-blown beard. His long hair now lay around his shoulders in near-dreadlock-like ropes. If wherever the hell they were going was still civilized, Miller decided that handsome Scratch was first in line for a bath. He looked like the law-breaking ne’er-do-well he used to be, not the reliable man he’d turned into. Miller wrinkled her nose. She could smell Scratch from where she sat, not the good man scent but the sour kind. That was a smell she’d never wanted to get used to.

  Miller accepted that she had a thing for Scratch. Miller had pretty much made up her mind that when things became a little less frantic and desperate, she would take their first opportunity to get “naked and weird” with him, as Sheppard would have put it. If they’d had any semblance of privacy since they left their friends, Rat and Lovell, back in Salt Lake City, she’d happily have backed him up against one of the pine trees and screwed his brains silly, body odor notwithstanding. But with the roadblocks, food and gas shortages, bribe-taking highway patrol officers, sleeping night after night in the minivan, and the occasional zombie sighting, she and Scratch had never been able to connect the dots—or anything else, for that matter. It was all they could do to stay alive and keep moving. Scratch had once been her prisoner, back in Flat Rock, Nevada. Now he was her best friend.

  Miller and the three men had been running for a long time now, working their way north and east. They’d stayed to themselves when possible, all the while listening to the frantic rumors spreading rapidly through the sparsely populated area. They’d heard wild talk of accidents involving nuclear weapons, a terrorist attack, and even an alien invasion. Occasionally they also heard a version of the truth. Underground radio had it right, as did word of mouth. Folks claimed that some military experiment had gone terribly wrong, and as a result spawned a wicked virus and a horde of ravenous zombies. They also said that the government had bombed the area in a desperate attempt to control the spread of the disease. And that Miller’s home state of Nevada had virtually ceased to exist.

  All of that was true.

  Miller still wasn’t too sure about Scratch’s plan. He had them driving halfway across the Rocky Mountains to some isolated mountain village, a place it would take months, if not years, for the zombies to reach. That had sounded like a decent idea a couple of weeks back when he had first proposed it. Terrill Lee and Sheppard had jumped on the idea. Miller still worried that it had more wrinkles than a Rolling Stones tour. This shadowy, twisting mountain road—and Terrill Lee’s driving—now really made her think twice. Even if this remote village were to remain zombie free, where would they all get their food, their drinking water? Hell, even a touch of electricity would be a welcome change of pace. Still, Scratch had seemed confident, and unless the authorities were complete morons, the townspeople probably had emergency arrangements handy. At least Scratch promised that the hunting would be decent. They’d get by somehow. They always had.

  Not wanting to risk Scratch’s wrath again, Terrill Lee turned on the radio. Only two FM channels had been available since the bombs went off. One played pop tunes of the 1950s and ‘60s, and the other offered a constant stream of government propaganda, total crap rather than any actual news. The brass probably wanted to avoid triggering a mass panic. It was a little late for that. Cautiously, Terrill Lee selected some music but turned it up just enough to be heard, not loud enough to be annoying.

  “How far is this place, anyway?” Terrill Lee asked. He had begun by using that line sparingly, but Miller had been counting the occurrences for the last two hours or so. The frequency was definitely increasing. Are we there yet?

  Scratch shot Terrill Lee a dark look. He didn’t snap the way Miller would have expected. Scratch seemed to be getting it together again. Miller figured the pressure of saving them with this risky stunt was starting to weigh heavily. Over their weeks together—months, really—since what felt like a hundred years ago, back when he’d been her prisoner, Scratch’s bad-ass persona had gradually given way to something else; a fervent desire to be perceived as a hero, at least by one Ms. Penny Miller. This trip was his big opportunity to come through for the group. No one else had a better idea anyway, but that didn’t seem to factor into Scratch’s thinking. He was now The Man. It was all on his nicely muscled shoulders.

  “I just told you, Terrill Lee,” Scratch said. “Look, it is maybe forty miles from that last junction. If this piece-of-shit clunker you bought had a working odometer, you’d be able to see how far we have left to go to get there, instead of pestering the rest of us.”

  Terrill Lee took his eyes off the winding road. He risked a quick look at Scratch. “Are we really going to have this conversation again? It was this car or we hiked up the mountain. I’m sorry I couldn’t get you that Porsche you’ve been mooning over.”

  Scratch almost took the bait. He glanced at Miller and managed to hold on to his composure. He grumbled to himself, “I just figured fifty-thousand dollars would at least buy us a working odometer.”

  “Inflation.” Terrill Lee went back to driving.

  The road turned rough. Rocky ground attacked their wheels. The vehicle bounced and groaned. The tension in the car mounted. Wisely, Karl Sheppard pretended to sleep. Miller studied the towering trees. Terrill Lee drove on, winding up the worn road. Meanwhile, Scratch stared out the dusty front window. He stiffened, perhaps spotting something familiar. And then he laughed out loud.

  “There!” Scratch shouted triumphantly. “That’s it.”

  Terrill Lee slowed the dented minivan. Miller saw a metal sign, hanging slightly sideways, that announced Hope Springs, Colorado, population 473. A black arrow indicated that the village lay to the right.

  Miller noted that there were no “Strangers Keep Out!” signs, like the ones they had seen in Utah and parts of western Colorado. These people weren’t openly hostile yet. That alone gave her a flicker of hope that they were choosing the right place.

  Terrill Lee turned the wheel sharply. They headed further up into the mountain heights. The trees on either sid
e of the road seemed to stand guard like giant sentries in bright green uniforms. Huge rocks pressed lower and spread wider, but not enough to block their way. The road was just wide enough for a semi to get through if it wore a girdle, so it was possible that they still had decent supplies up here in the boonies. If the village wasn’t already in a panic, it might be possible for them to get a home-cooked meal. Miller thought it would be nice to eat something other than food bars and things they’d had to kill and roast themselves.

  They drove on, and the world down below began to seem very far away. Pleased but cautious, the group in the minivan exchanged uneasy glances. Things felt safer up high. On the other hand, considering the shit storm they’d seen down at the foot of the mountain, it was also possible for them to end up someone else’s next main course. Folks were panicking and supplies were almost nonexistent down in the flatlands. Rumor had it people who weren’t even dead yet were starting to eat other people here and there—which hit a little close to home for the four of them. They’d had a cannibal experience at the foot of the Ruby Mountains in Nevada with one Father Abraham and his followers, back before Nevada had ceased to exist.

  Only a little light filtered down through the trees as they finally entered the village of Hope Springs. The forest painted the buildings in shadow as the sun began to set in the western sky. They drove slowly and did not stop. Most of the windows were closed and shuttered. Things looked semi-deserted and thus a tad creepy. Even if Miller accounted for the isolation of the place, and the tiny population, the village seemed deserted. The main drag through the village was clean and wide, with little shops and larger businesses on either side of the street. Some of them had been boarded up, but that could have been caused by anything from the lousy economy to the coming winter season. She had no reason to believe it was because of the zombie plague. Yeah, you just keep kidding yourself…

  Terrill Lee said what they were all thinking. “Where are the people?”

  “The street lights are still on,” Scratch said. “Somebody’s got to be around. They’ve all probably just gone home for the night.”

  Miller frowned. “Are you sure about that?”

  Scratch shrugged, but not easily. This was a crapshoot for him, and he clearly needed it to pay off. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Is that where we’re going?” Sheppard pointed.

  “Where?”

  Miller turned in her seat and looked out the window. She spotted a complex of large buildings right next to a network of ski lifts heading up the mountain. It was a hardwood-planked, Swiss style ski resort and first class all the way. Miller relaxed. Scratch had gotten it right. A place like that should have food, supplies, and probably some people to talk to other than these three cowboys she’d been cooped up with for the last several weeks. Hell, maybe even a Jacuzzi tub. Miller’s eyes roamed the resort, and her body relaxed a bit. From where she was, rolling through the middle of the village, the danged place also looked defensible. They’d be safe and secure.

  “Wonderful,” Miller said.

  “That’s not it,” Scratch said, with a chuckle in his voice. “That old place burned up inside years ago. It’s just a fancy shell. I’m surprised that the outside is still standing.”

  “Where are we going, then?” Miller asked.

  Scratch pointed at a fork in the road ahead. The one to the left had a dilapidated sign for the Rocky Point Ski Resort. So that had to be it, Miller thought. Hell, the right-hand fork wasn’t even labeled.

  “Terrill Lee, take the right,” Scratch said, “the one with no marker. We’ll be where we’re going in a few more minutes.”

  Miller tensed up again. Wait a second, so we’re going to the worst possible alternative? This did not bode well, but she didn’t say anything. She’d just wait and see. Miller didn’t want Scratch to feel shot down. He had her best interests at heart.

  Once again, they drove on. They began to climb higher into the mountains. The road was packed with tall pines on both sides, crowding close to the dirt road. The road was dark and Terrill Lee turned on the lights. The smell of the trees was particularly strong here. Compared to the Nevada desert Miller had grown used to, the location offered a lovely potpourri of fragrances. For a moment, she wondered what it must be like to bring a dog up here for a long run. It would spend its whole day here joyously sniffing the air. After days packed in with unwashed men, she would too. Miller cracked the window a little more and breathed it all in. It was the nicest perfume she’d ever inhaled. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  “Bingo.” Terrill Lee broke into Miller’s thoughts and focused her attention on what was appearing up ahead, out in front of the car.

  Scratch growled a warning to Terrill Lee not to start singing. Miller was momentarily worried he’d pummel Terrill Lee to death right there for just that reference to the damned song, but Scratch actually began to chuckle instead.

  The light died rapidly. Their headlights illuminated the road, which became paved again. A hulking shape emerged from the gloom. Through the windshield, a couple of outdoor lights illuminated what appeared to be another good-sized building up ahead. Dark-stained wood framed the large picture windows of what appeared to be a three-story hunting lodge of some kind. It was far more compact than the burned-out ski resort, and very well designed. This was a place that could serve as a fortress. If Miller had any doubts of where they were headed, they evaporated right then and there. Scratch had done himself proud.

  “We’re here,” Scratch said. He puffed up, sensing Miller’s approval. “Terrill Lee, head over to the left, toward that little cabin. That’s our first stop.”

  The building in question was what Miller would have referred to as a cottage. Whitewashed clapboard walls supported the high-pitched roof. This was a house, one that seemed too large for one person, but it would have been about right for a small family. As Miller continued to study the front of the cottage, one of the curtains moved to reveal a white face in the backlit window. As quickly as it appeared, it was gone.

  “Well, someone’s home,” Miller said. “And now they know we’re here.” The seat squealed softly as she turned to address Scratch. “Is this person a friend of yours? I’m thinking maybe we should go in packing.”

  “Yes, Greta’s a friend,” Scratch said. He did not protest as Miller checked the load in her .357 Smith and Wesson revolver. Instead, he checked to make sure his own .45 Springfield was still in its clip-on holster on his hip.

  Miller said, “Let’s do this.”

  “Look, don’t anyone freak her out,” Scratch said, mostly to Terrill Lee and Sheppard. “We need her help if this trip is going to pay off.”

  Terrill Lee steered them to a stop right outside the cabin. The tires crunched to a halt. Terrill Lee rolled the window down. Snow—perhaps the first snow of the season—began to fall in a light powder. Up close, in the glare of their headlights, Miller noted that the yard was a bit messy, the main building a bit dirty. A Harley Electra Glide sat rusting in front of an out-building. Miller made a note of that. Any vehicle that ran could come in handy these days.

  “Careful, boys,” Miller said. The men knew what she meant. Things had been boring for a while, but something about the situation reminded them all that Hell was waiting around the corner. Any corner.

  “Okay, but this ain’t a special forces night drop,” Scratch said. “We’re all friends here. She’s just an old lady. We’ll take it slow and easy here, and everyone be sure and put a big smile on your face.”

  Miller mumbled, “If it will get me a hot bath and a bottle of shampoo…”

  Scratch waited a few beats as if to give the woman inside time to ponder the situation. The steadily growing darkness made them all uncomfortable. Everyone practiced smiling. Scratch looked at each of them, studying their shadowy features, eventually settling on Terrill Lee, who now wore a big, goofy grin, one more suitable for a John Wayne Gacy clown than someone trying to charm a scared old lady. Scratch frowned
.

  “Terrill Lee?”

  “What?”

  “Ease up on that cartoon smile there, big guy,” Scratch said.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “You look kind of like we all ought to start humming theme from Jaws.”

  Terrill Lee relaxed his face and hid his teeth. He looked almost human again. “Guess I’m a little wound up. This better?”

  “That’s good as gold,” said Scratch. “Keep it right there at twenty percent or so.”

  Scratch opened his door, slowly and carefully. Miller, Terrill Lee, and Sheppard did the same. They all got out. Terrill Lee left the lights on so they could see. The headlights and floodlights turned everything white. Night was crawling rapidly over the forest floor, and their own long, fat shadows seemed to be rushing to swallow them up.

  They walked toward the cottage, across the pine needles and crunchy frost and up onto the paved driveway. Miller saw the woman Greta’s face reappear in the window next to the front door. She seemed weathered, very nervous. She squinted blindly in their direction for a long moment before she vanished from sight for a second time. Seconds later Miller heard the quiet but unmistakable sound of a bolt-action rifle being cycled.

  “Who’s there?” Her voice came from the other side of the thick front door. “Don’t come any closer or I’ll blow your ass to hamburger.”

  “Hey, Greta,” Scratch called. “It’s me.” And then Scratch did something that must have been incredibly difficult in front of companions, and especially in front of Penny Miller. He used his real name.

  “Jimmy Bowen.”

  Miller kept her face blank. Terrill Lee immediately suppressed a snicker. Sheppard snorted and studied the frosty ground, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Scratch reddened. He shot the other men a warning look, but otherwise stayed quiet.

  An owl hooted to the north. Miller studied Scratch with a new sense of respect. For as long as she had known the biker, he had been willing to beat the living shit out of anyone who dared to call him by anything but his gang name. And now here he was setting himself up to get teased to death by his best friends.