Screw ‘em, Greta thought. People can clean up after me for once.
Struck by a pang of conscience, Greta gingerly picked up the picture of her beloved husband and son. Her husband was buried a few miles away at the Baptist cemetery. Her son was at the bottom of the ocean, killed by an RPG launched by some stoned pirate off the coast of Somalia. There was nothing she could do for her son, Henry. He wasn’t coming back, zombies or not. But she began to wonder about Bill, her husband, dead these last fifteen years. Would he rest in peace? Nobody knew where the zombies were coming from. Maybe the dead were rising from their graves, and maybe she’d get a chance to see old Bill again. Greta considered that idea and decided maybe not. Still, she considered stopping by the graveyard on the way out of Hope Springs. At least she could say goodbye. She’d never be back this way again.
Greta was packed for good and ready to go before she knew it. She deliberately left her little laptop on the desk in her bedroom. Internet access had become intermittent the very day Nevada went away, and she had an icky feeling that the government was reading everyone’s email. She only corresponded with her sister Hannah in Hartford, Connecticut, but even those messages had started getting choppy, like someone was reading them and snipping out all the good gossip. So she’d find her sister and split. That bag had to contain a fortune. It would go a long way to getting them both the hell off the North American continent.
She looked up at the clock. It was exactly midnight. Greta felt like she was amped up on a whole pot of coffee. She couldn’t wait anymore. She took out her ring of keys, a large flashlight, and an old Ruger 9mm her husband had left her. As she turned the handle to the cabin door, she had one last pang of guilt. Turning hesitantly, she went to her filing cabinet and unlocked it. Greta pulled out a slim folder, and slipped out the papers inside. She picked up her favorite pen and quickly signed a document. Greta put it inside the folder again, and took that with her.
A moment later, she was walking through the light dusting of snow to the lodge. She didn’t bother to turn on the flashlight. She had been the caretaker of the Harrison Lake Sportsman’s Lodge for forty-five years—back to even before President Carter stayed there—and she knew the place better than she knew herself. She went to the admissions desk and dropped off the folder. She turned the flashlight on briefly, and scribbled a note on the front of the folder. Then she turned off the light and headed up the stairs in the dark.
That redheaded woman had carried the moneybag and taken it into her suite. That was the most likely place to look. She looked like a smart girl, but she’d also looked very, very tired.
Greta used her master key to open the door. She was careful to insert the key quietly, working hard not to make the tumbler pins click with the passage of the key. The door opened smoothly, and Greta left it open as she entered the room. She could see by the starlight that the bedroom door was open, but as long as she was quiet, no one would need to know she was there.
She covered the lens of the flashlight with her hand and turned it on. Her fingers made a red glow, hardly noticeable, but it was enough to see the bag of money sitting right on the coffee table. Greta tiptoed across the room. She knew every floorboard to avoid. She opened the bag, peeked inside, and felt around with her fingers. There were many more stacks of money inside, so many she couldn’t begin to count them all.
Greta’s pulse pounded in her ears. She pulled the Ruger out of her pocket and pointed it toward the bedroom door. If anyone—even Jimmy—came out of that door and discovered her, she would have to shoot them without hesitating. She would go to hell for it, but if burning in hell were the price of having a decent chance to get as far away from the zombies as she could, then that was a risk she was willing to take.
Nothing moved, including Greta. A clock ticked forward in the hallway. Outside an owl hooted. Greta took a deep breath. Eventually, she picked up the straps to the bag, and lifted it gingerly off the table.
Something—keys, maybe—slid off the top of the bag and onto the coffee table, making what seemed like an impossibly loud noise in the silence. Greta’s attention snapped back to the bedroom doorway. Her Ruger pointed shakily in that direction. Her breath caught in her throat and her pulse thumped in her ears.
Nothing moved in the darkness. Not a sound came from the bedroom. Maybe Jimmy’s lady-friend was spending the night in his suite. If that was the case, then Greta had better move her keister and get the money somewhere safe. If they woke up to get it on again she’d get caught, sure as shit.
Greta risked turning on the flashlight once more, and searched for the source of that clattering sound. When she saw what it was, she was almost as happy as when she’d wrapped her hands around the handle of the moneybag.
It was a set of car keys.
The keys to the minivan. The one Jimmy and his friends had arrived in.
Greta knew she was much more likely to make it with the minivan than if she took that old Harley. The world had changed. Everyone was out for themselves. Quickly, Greta scooped up the keys and the moneybag, and headed for the hall. Nothing opposed her as she stepped onto the landing and closed the door behind her. Barely suppressing a giggle over her triumph, she headed downstairs, money in hand. She moved faster and faster as she left the others behind.
Once outside the lodge, she opened the minivan door and tossed the moneybag inside. She went back into her cottage, where she had left her belongings, and gathered them up. Greta put them in the minivan as well. She opened the driver’s side door and sat down. She turned the key halfway and checked the gas. There was a quarter tank left, according to the gauge. That would have to do. Maybe she could coast most of the way down the mountain to save fuel.
Greta decided not to get all clever and roll the minivan down the hill before starting it up. Too many things could go wrong in the dark if she didn’t have power. If the engine turned over right away, she could be out of there before those poor schmucks even woke up and knew what was going on. She started the minivan, it fired up at once. Greta laughed and backed out onto the road.
She let out a whoop as she headed through the middle of Hope Springs. She had done it. She had the minivan, the money, and a chance to survive. By the time Jimmy or anyone else knew to look for her, she would already be two states away.
The night closed in. The headlights chased the gloom away. Greta did have one stop first. The Baptist cemetery was only ten minutes down the mountain. She would stop, say goodbye to Bill one last time, and then head for Connecticut. A full moon peeked out from behind the clouds. It made the turnoff easy to spot.
She stopped the minivan just outside the small graveyard, but left the lights on so she could see. Bill’s gravestone wasn’t too far from the gate, and she used her flashlight to get her the fifty or so steps to the grave. The stones were beautiful in the moonlight. They made her sad. She knew so many of the names.
Greta stopped in front of the gravestone. “Bill, I’m sorry to do this to you, darling, but I have to go. It ain’t the world you left anymore, and if I want to stay this side of the grave, it’s time for me to leave. I just had to stop and say I love you, and I’ll miss you always.”
She turned to go, but stopped. Guilt rose up again. Greta sighed. She had one last thing left to say. “I also need to tell you I’m sorry. I wasn’t faithful to you. I’ve cheated. It was with Old Gunter…”
An owl mocked her. A lone coyote mourned. Greta wiped her face on her sleeve and the flashlight beam danced around. “I hope you can forgive me.”
Having said her piece, Greta played the flashlight across the gravestone one more time. It was time to go. She heard a noise. Something in her peripheral vision moved.
Uhh hunh.
Greta froze. The sound had come from directly behind Bill’s old headstone. Her mind told her to turn and run for the minivan. In spite of herself, she drew the Ruger and pointed it at the tree line.
“Who’s there?” Greta demanded. She was surprised how strong her voice sou
nded. There was someone out there, standing in the pines, by that large rock the local kids liked to play on. He moved in her direction, one step at a time. My God.
The man walked closer, with his hands in plain sight. He wasn’t armed.
Greta almost fired, but in the end she couldn’t do that without at least asking.
“Bill? Is that you?”
Greta brought the flashlight up and played it on the face of her visitor.
She screamed.
It wasn’t Bill.
CHAPTER THREE
“At least she didn’t cut our throats.” Terrill Lee smiled weakly. Miller felt like slapping him, but in the morning sunshine he seemed like a terrified little boy. She looked down at her worn boots and sighed.
“You know what?” Scratch made a fist. “The next time you consider being a stand-up, take-charge type of guy, don’t!”
“It’s not his fault,” Sheppard said wearily. “Let’s go make some coffee.”
“It’s not his fault?” Scratch was livid. “If he hadn’t opened his mouth, we’d still have six—count ‘em—six hundred thousand dollars!”
“And a minivan,” said Miller absently. She continued to stare at the contents of the folder they’d found on the admissions desk. The papers Greta had left for them. Good lord. Why can’t life ever be simple?
“Thank you!” Scratch waived his hand in Miller’s general direction. “See, even Penny agrees with me.”
Miller didn’t even look up. “I didn’t say I agreed with any of you dipsticks. I was simply stating a fact.”
All three of the men turned to look at her. Scratch opened and closed his mouth like a fish. Sunlight streamed through the windows on the lake side of the lodge. The day was gorgeous, the ground outside white with snow. If we weren’t so well and truly fucked, thought Miller, I would say it was actually beautiful up here.
“And here’s another fact,” Miller continued. “If I read this document correctly, we all seem to be the proud new owners of a slightly used hunting lodge.” She held up the signed papers. “I’m no contract expert, but I’d say this looks pretty legal.”
“We really own the place?” Terrill Lee jumped on the chance to redeem himself. “Owning a lodge is better than owning a minivan, right?”
Sheppard shrugged. “Yeah. Whatever owning something means these days.”
Miller looked at Sheppard and nodded. “That’s precisely my point, Karl. But until the zombies are gone and the damned courts mean something again, I’d say this place is ours one way or the other.”
“This joint ain’t got wheels,” said Scratch. “And it also ain’t got a big bag of money.”
“Scratch, out of all of us, I would have figured you to be the one who’d understand.” Miller set the papers down on the desk. She turned to face the three men. “Your idea was to find someplace safe to hole up for the duration. Look around you. We got a roof, four walls, a view of the lake…”
“Kinda pretty,” Terrill Lee said quietly. Then he shut up again.
Miller turned to the side. She pointed off to her right. “Gentlemen, I can see some scoped hunting rifles and twenty-gauge shotguns standing in that gun case from here. There’s electricity, now we have hot water as we’ve discovered, probably some decent food, and if those big-assed windows hold out, best of all, a defensible position. Not to mention a collection of enough twenty-year-old paperback novels to last us a year. I’m not sure that’s worth six-hundred-forty-thousand dollars—plus a fifty thousand dollar minivan,” Miller waved to cut off Scratch, who looked like he was about to say something. He shut up too. “But this was your plan from the beginning. We don’t like the price, but I figure at least we got what we came here for.”
Terrill Lee beamed like a kid let off the hook. Scratch frowned. Sheppard nodded. Miller was satisfied to have them motivated again.
“We should inventory the place,” said Sheppard. He stood up. “I want to go check for medical supplies and we should see how much ammunition we have. Just in case.”
“Now you’re catching on,” Miller said. “Let’s make the best of this.”
“I suppose,” Scratch said. There was a deep frustration building behind his eyes. He wasn’t stupid—not by a long shot—but this was clearly not the result he was hoping for. Still, he respected Miller enough to reign in his rage.
Terrill Lee clapped Scratch on the shoulder without thinking and almost got punched. “Smile, Scratch. Penny is right. You got your wish.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” said Sheppard in a singsong, just loud enough to be heard. “Okay, I’m going to start with the kitchen, Penny.”
“Excellent. Terrill Lee, go pick an end of the building, work your way back here and see what you can find. You and Scratch ought to separate for a time anyway. Everybody get some paper and a pencil, take it with you and write stuff down. Let’s get a complete map of the lodge and an accurate inventory. Meanwhile, I’m going to take my own look around.”
They spread out. Sheppard went to the café area and into the kitchen, and Terrill Lee headed down into the basement. The snow had stopped and the light from the thick windows was bright and warm. The air was cozy and the wood smelled of fresh pine furniture cleaner.
Scratch stood where he was. As soon as the others were out of earshot he said, “You can’t be serious.”
“What else do you propose we do?” Miller started in the direction of the gun case, which stood against the far wall near the large stone fireplace. She wasn’t really looking at Scratch, yet not really ignoring him. She knew he needed to calm down and didn’t want him to feel further challenged. “Blaming Terrill Lee for what happened won’t get us anywhere. Besides, I didn’t hear anyone suggest that we stay in the same room, post guards, barricade the doors, or do any of that. We were all too dead tired. Instead, we split up the party like a bunch of rookies, even after you warned us that Greta wasn’t stand up. Hell, I left the money bag too far away from where I was sleeping. In the end, I figure maybe we all deserved to get screwed.”
She kept walking. After a moment, Scratch followed behind her. Miller could tell she had made her point. She stopped in front of the glass doors and counted the rifles and guns inside the case. Miller tested the doors. They were locked.
“You’re better at breaking and entering than me, Scratch. Why don’t you see if you can’t get this thing open?”
Without thinking, Scratch reached up above the gun case. He felt around, and produced a dusty key. He opened the gun case and stepped aside as if to say, ta-dah.
“You seem to know an awful lot about this lodge,” Miller said. She pulled one of the long hunting rifles from the rack. “Care to explain that?” She pointed the rifle out the window, sighted on a bird on the top branches of a tree a hundred yards off. It was a fine weapon.
“I told you in the minivan,” Scratch said, “my folks used to work here. Me and my brother spent what were supposed to be the best years of our lives cleaning toilets and mucking stables for nothing more than a pat on the head. There wasn’t anything to do for fun but get shitfaced, chase some tail, and break all the local laws. If it weren’t for the clientele, it would have been a total fucking waste.”
“There’s a stable?” Miller asked. She took the scope away from her eye. She was suddenly very interested. “Horses?”
“Yeah, out the back next to the lake, behind Greta’s cabin. There are usually four or five horses in there. This lodge was kind of a dude-ranch-slash-fuck-palace for celebrities who wanted to get away from the cameras and their wives. Jack Nicholson was here almost every other weekend. They say Jimmy Carter didn’t just lust in his heart around this place. Axl Rose nearly overdosed upstairs. They had to send a helicopter to airlift his sorry ass out.”
“Good times, eh?”
Scratch chuckled, remembering. He waved his hand, indicating the whole lodge. “There was more hunting for pussy going on around here for the last fifty years than for bear, I can tell you that.” He pat
ted a stuffed black bear that stood next to the gun cabinet. The long, yellow teeth looked ready to bite down on his hand. “No offense, my man.”
Miller looked at Scratch for a long time, not saying anything.
Finally, Scratch broke the silence. “What?”
“You done good, Scratch. This place ain’t exactly Fort Knox, but it sure will do.” She set the rifle down in its spot in the gun case. “Thank you.” Miller smiled. She stepped up to Scratch and kissed him.
Scratch wrapped his arms around her and kissed her back. It was a long, gentle kiss. Miller surprised herself when she bit his top lip, then slipped her tongue in his mouth. Scratch had brushed his teeth and freshened up, so the rancid smell of the minivan was gone. Miller breathed in through her nose then let the breath out. She put her hands on his butt, and gave his cheeks a gentle squeeze. Scratch got pretty wound up. Miller shook her head and sighed again. She put her palms on Scratch’s chest, and gently pushed him away.
Scratch broke the kiss. He didn’t let go all the way. He nuzzled her neck. “I think we might be more comfortable upstairs.” He breathed into her ear and nibbled.
“I was thinking the same thing.” Miller pulled back. She smiled at him. “However, we have company.”
“I thought we talked about this, Penny.” The stern voice seemed to emerge from the stuffed black bear.
Miller let go of Scratch. She stepped backwards a pace. She was in no mood to be lectured. Not again.
“What is it, Karl?” Miller spoke with as much patience as she could muster. Which was very little.
“You two can not be doing that kind of thing,” Sheppard said. He stepped out from behind the huge stuffed bear. His features were tight with disapproval. Miller pictured him as an angry nun. “You know perfectly well that the zombie virus can be transmitted through bodily fluids.”
The Hungry 3: At the End of the World Page 4