Miller groaned.
Sheppard turned to Scratch. “So, my friend, unless you want to score the worst case of Zombie mononucleosis in history, I’d suggest you keep your distance, at least until I can get into a lab and figure out a complete cure. Remember, all we’ve done is put it in remission. If Gifford hadn’t double-crossed us after we double-crossed him and booby-trapped the laptop with all our research on it, I might have already had something.” Sheppard glanced back and forth between them. “In the meantime, I prescribe cold showers and hot phone sex—from opposite sides of the lodge—because that’s as close as you two should get to actual physical contact.”
Miller shook her head. Her cheeks flushed. As angry as she was at the interruption, Sheppard was probably right, as usual. “I feel fine, Karl. In fact, I was feeling better than fine only a minute ago.”
She smiled at Scratch. Scratch kept his eyes on the intruder, Sheppard.
“Karl, we don’t need a chaperone.” Scratch said, sounding more than a bit pissed off.
“Evidently you do,” Sheppard said. “I have enough trouble keeping Penny healthy as it is. Scratch, if you get infected, it could kill you. We’re going to need you for later, you know.”
“We don’t even know that she’s still got the virus.”
Sheppard glared at Scratch, disappointment on his face. “Nice try, but that’s wishful thinking. It may be dormant for right now but it is still very much in her system.”
“Enough, okay,” said Miller. “We get it. Was there something you needed, Karl, or were you trying to avoid presiding over a shotgun wedding?”
Sheppard scowled and brought himself to something like attention. “Terrill Lee and I have something to report.”
Scratch smirked. “Okay, sergeant, report.”
Sheppard ignored the sarcasm. “It’s better if you see for yourselves.” He did an about face and led them away.
Miller walked behind Sheppard but stayed close to Scratch. She almost held his hand as they walked, but decided against that. Part of her couldn’t have cared less what Terrill Lee thought of Scratch and her getting together, not by this point, but her ex-husband had also become a friend again, especially since the zombie outbreak. It didn’t seem right to rub his nose in a new affair—especially with Sheppard doing everything but locking her in a chastity belt to prevent that. On the other hand, she had once caught Terrill Lee screwing his veterinary assistant right there in Miller’s home and Miller’s bed, so maybe he really didn’t rate much sympathy in that arena. The thought of that made still her blood boil.
Aren’t we all grown up?
Nope. Miller reached over and took Scratch’s hand.
A part of her brain commented how petty it was to hold a grudge against Terrill Lee—it had been over two years since she’d caught him in the act, after all. Hell, he had saved her life at the start of the apocalypse, and again from those cannibal cultists on top of everything else. But she did and was still angry anyway. Scratch’s warm hand closed over hers, and she smiled. It was time for things to change.
Terrill Lee’s back was turned when they approached. His head was in the big refrigerator in the kitchen. The kitchen itself was small, informal, but built for heavy use, with stainless steel everywhere and an industrial dishwasher in the corner. The wood paneling was dusty but clearly well maintained. Greta had seen to her job.
“They’re here,” Sheppard announced.
Terrill Lee pulled his head out of the fridge. He turned to face them. When he saw Scratch and Miller holding hands, his cheeks reddened. Terrill Lee cleared his throat and said, “Well, it isn’t as bad as I thought it would be.”
“There’s food?” Scratch grinned.
“Yeah, there’s food. Taking into account the spoilage,” He pointed to a large trashcan filled with rotting garbage, “there’s probably enough for the four of us for a month. If we want to make it through the whole winter, we’re going to have to find another source of food. And that means we’ll have to go hunting.”
“Or barter,” Sheppard said. “Tell them what you found downstairs.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Terrill Lee, brightening up a bit. “You’re going to love this!” He signaled for them to follow him down into the basement. Miller decided to let him have his little moment in the sun, especially after what had just happened with Sheppard, and she and Scratch holding hands. Fair was fair. Terrill Lee trotted down the steps and they followed him. It was cool and dark, and the air was dry.
“Please tell me the wine cellar is still stocked.” Scratch grinned hopefully.
Terrill Lee turned to shoot him a dirty look. “Damn it, Scratch, you ruined the surprise.” He looked genuinely hurt. Miller felt a bit sorry for him.
Miller started down the stairs. “So there’s a wine cellar?”
“You bet there is,” said Terrill Lee. “And I’m no expert, but I do know a little about wine, and the bottles down here have got to be way above average. Look at this.” He continued to lead the way down the concrete stairs, into the darkness, and flipped on the light switch at the bottom. Sheppard followed them down the stairs. The walls were thick, almost like some kind of a bunker, probably for insulation.
The room was large and perfectly cold. Miller counted at least seven different tall racks of bottles, with a small aisle between each of them, all of them going off into the back of the room, a good twenty-five feet away. Each of the racks was filled to capacity with wine bottles. She recognized some of the brands and whistled.
Terrill Lee picked up one of the bottles. He swiped the dust off the label. “This is the oldest one that I’ve been able to find. It’s a little under a hundred years old, and there are four or five of its mates over there.” He looked around like a proud parent. “Trust me, there’s got to be a couple hundred thousand dollars’ worth of wine in here.”
“Forget the dollar value,” Miller said. “People will trade a shitload of the stuff we need for booze of any kind, hundred year old wine be damned.”
Sheppard nodded in agreement. Terrill Lee looked even more pleased with himself. Miller started walking around the huge cellar, looking at all the wine. It was a gold mine in its own way.
Miller picked up a bottle of wine and examined it. “Okay, I think we should gather up some of the more common bottles, say the last twenty years or so, and go into the village and see if we can’t trade them for something useful, like food or warm clothes. I really don’t want to think about living through winter in the Rockies with just my uniform jacket and a pair of jeans to keep out the cold.”
“I’ll go,” Scratch said. He caught her eyes and held on tight. An electric current passed between them. “I still know people here. I can smooth things over. But you should probably come too, Penny.”
“Okay,” said Miller, catching his drift. Maybe they could manage to steal a bit of alone time in the woods, cold or not, without Sheppard there to get in the middle. Her thighs tingled. They were long overdue for a rendezvous. She nodded thoughtfully, as if thinking things over. “Let’s finish the inventory first, and then you and me, we’ll go down to the village and say howdy.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“Nope. Never seen ‘em before,” Wesley said. He sniffed from the cold.
“What about the horses?”
“Those are Harrison brands, for sure. They had to have come from the lodge. You reckon ol’ Greta’s got some company?”
Martin LaGrange kept the scope trained on the two riders in the distance, the crosshairs playing over their bodies like a lover’s caress. One of them, the redheaded woman, had the word SHERIFF written across her jacket and what appeared to be a genuine uniform patch on her arm. Still, since she was wearing blue jeans and shit-kickers, the chances of her real being law enforcement seemed pretty low. She’d probably fucked or killed some genuine pig for it. Regardless, hot damn if she wasn’t the best looking woman to come through Hope Springs in a long time. Martin made up his mind right then and there. He was going to
have to tear him off a piece of that.
The other rider wasn’t going to be a problem. Sure, he was big, and Martin could see some tattoos under his torn sleeves, but tattoos didn’t mean shit. Hell, any sissy could get himself a tattoo these days. The rider had “bad-ass” written all over him, but that long hair sure wouldn’t do him any good in a fight—and besides, Martin had no intention of letting the dude even get close enough to take a swing. He was one quick squeeze of the trigger away from being a non-issue, though Martin also knew that Constable Crosby didn’t take kindly to folks getting shot without permission. Martin had other ideas for that one, and for the woman, too.
“They got weapons. What are we gonna do with ‘em?” Wesley was all nervous energy and pimples but the kid could shoot straight and true and took orders well. So Martin put up with him.
“I say we blow ‘em out of the saddle, take the horses back to camp. Ain’t no one gonna miss a couple of strangers. Not nowadays.”
Martin didn’t take his eye away from the scope. “Since when the fuck did you get a vote, Brent?” He spoke quietly and with authority. Brent was a pain in the ass, a fountain of talk and bluster, but Martin knew he could count on the short, stocky man when the shit came down. If he could only get him to shut up.
“I got a bead on the hippie,” Brent babbled. “Betcha I could hit him square in the left eye from here. He can’t be more than a couple hundred feet away. I got him for sure.” Brent paused for breath. “No way I could miss him, no way. Come on, Martin. Let’s go for it. Let me take the shot. In a minute they’re going to be too close and it won’t be any kind of challenge.”
“Quit your yammering, Brent.” Martin looked up. He pointed to a stand of pine a short ways off. “You and Wes go take up a position behind those trees and wait for me to signal to you. Nobody shoots unless I say so. We’re going to have a little interview with these nice folks. Let’s keep it friendly. Go.”
The two men went. They were quiet, stayed low. They knew their jobs. Martin continued to watch as the two newcomers approached. He studied them, this time without the assistance of the sniper scope. They were talking about God knows what. He could hear their voices from where he waited in the brush. The woman reached out and held the man’s hand for a moment before the horses pulled apart. Martin could see a big silver handgun in a holster on the woman’s hip, and there was a rifle next to the man’s leg. They were armed and these were unusual times. So Martin was going to keep it light and easy, at least at the beginning.
Martin made his way to an opening in the trees. He watched their approach. He didn’t want to appear suddenly from the brush, or do anything that would alarm them unnecessarily. The trail down to the village went by where he was standing, so it was only a matter of a minute or two before they rode right past him. There was nothing to do now but wait. Martin took a quick look to the right. The trees ended maybe fifty yards to the north, and he could see a couple of people out on foot. No one drove much these days, gas being available only in Beaufort, about twenty minutes away, and it seemed likely pretty soon fuel wouldn’t be available there either. None of the people from the village were looking in his direction at the moment, but that didn’t mean that he couldn’t be seen. Martin realized that he’d have to get these strangers off the trail, and pretty damned quick, if he were to expect any privacy for his little interview.
When the two riders were about fifteen yards away, Martin stepped out into the open. “Hey, there!” he said, waving and smiling. The rifle he carried was draped over his arm, pointed at the ground. Light and friendly, Martin reminded himself.
Both riders stiffened, but neither reached for a weapon.
“Howdy,” said the red-haired woman. She shifted in the Sheriff’s jacket. Her tone was friendly, but her expression was wary. She reigned in her horse and stopped maybe 10 feet away. Her hand drifted close to her weapon. The man with her said nothing.
“I ain’t seen you around here before.” Martin gradually stepped forward. “Are you staying up at the lodge?”
The woman took a quick look at the big man, who had now stopped his horse next to hers. “Something like that. What can we do for you?”
“Well, it’s just that we don’t get a lot of strangers around here. With everything going on these days, it’s nice to know who’s here and who’s not. You know what I’m saying?”
The long-haired man spoke for the first time. “Sure. You can’t be too careful, know what I’m saying?” He stared at Martin with barely guarded hostility. The woman shot him a look then turned back to face Martin.
Martin stepped forward, shifting the rifle to his other arm, and put out his hand. “My handle’s Martin. Martin LaGrange.” Reluctantly, the woman reached down from the horse and shook his hand.
“I’m Sheriff Penny Miller. This here’s Scratch,” she said, hooking a thumb over her shoulder.
“Sheriff, huh?” Martin said. He tried to seem impressed. “Your arm patch says Flat Rock, Nevada. Lady, I hear Nevada ain’t even there anymore. You must be pretty lucky to still be around.”
“Luck was part of it.” The woman shifted in her saddle. Her facial expression changed, maybe relaxed a tad. “Maybe you can answer a question. We’re headed into the village to get some supplies. You reckon you could point us in the right direction to someone we can barter with?”
“Not much left in the village,” Martin lied. “Ain’t been any kind of a delivery for about two weeks.” Martin’s mouth was dry, but he resisted the urge to lick his lips. “On the other hand, my boys and me, we got more than enough supplies. What all were you looking for? Maybe we can make us a trade.”
“Your boys?” asked the red-haired woman. She’d tensed up again.
“Yep.” Martin waived to Wesley and Brent, who appeared as if from nowhere. The bad ass stiffened in the saddle but still didn’t reach for his weapon.
“Come on over, boys,” called Martin, smiling and waving. “They’re safe.”
The two men came out from behind the trees, rifles lowered like Martin’s. They walked fast and stood on either side of the two mounted strangers. They smiled; Brent friendly and easy, Wesley maybe a bit too tense. The big stranger was squinting a bit, clearly considering his options. Before Miller and her companion could react further, Martin said, “Our camp is only a little ways away. If you want to follow us, we can probably find something we can trade for.”
“You know what,” Miller said, “we appreciate the offer, but I think we’d be better off seeing what’s in the village.” She rested her hand on her right thigh, only inches from her gun. “I’m sure you understand.”
That was good enough for Martin. He snapped his wrist, bringing the rifle up to bear on the woman, moving faster than she could reach for her gun. Immediately Wesley and Brent did the same. Both of them focused on the big man with the tattoos without being told. They were clearly in charge. The situation had changed in an instant.
“Sorry, Sheriff, but I gotta insist,” Martin said. “Why don’t you just drop that shiny gun on the ground, and then we can talk civil. You too, partner, slow and easy.”
Martin watched both of the strangers carefully as they in turn checked out the other two men and everyone’s position. These two had been in some serious scrapes together. The woman was clearly calculating her chances. The man was hanging back but likely to back her play, whatever it was, no matter what.
“Whatever you’re thinking, let it go,” Martin said. “I assure you, you won’t enjoy what happens next if you don’t do what I say. Give me your guns.”
Miller made up her mind. “I’m an officer of the law. I’m not going to relinquish my weapon.”
Martin was surprised by this, but then realized he shouldn’t have been. Constable Crosby was the same fucking way. He sighed and said, “Then unless you’re bulletproof, you’re dead.”
Things kind of froze for a few seconds.
The woman sagged a bit, as if she’d deflated. She showed Martin two fingers,
and slowly slipped the revolver out of its holster and dropped it at her horse’s feet. Following her lead, the man pulled the rifle from its sleeve and handed it to Brent, who stood covering them from the left. Brent also reached down and picked up the revolver from the half-frozen ground. Wes kept the man covered.
“That’s right,” said Martin. “Well done, lady. Now how ‘bout you come down here one at a time, to where we can talk neighborly.”
Slowly, each of the strangers dismounted. The Sheriff looked pretty damned pissed. God, she was beautiful. Her hair fell in crimson cascades down her shoulders, and her face was amazing. Unlike a lot of women in Hope Springs, she didn’t resemble her horse, not by a long shot. Martin thought that she didn’t have much in the way of tits, but she had on her a set of hips that made his mouth water. He couldn’t help but picture her bent over a log somewhere—somewhere nearby, if he had something to say about it. He could hear her squealing and moaning.
“What do you want from us?” asked the Sheriff. She seemed to be reading his mind. Her eyes were cold as creek water.
“There’s a lot of rumors going around nowadays,” Martin said soothingly. “They say that the sick and the wounded, they can die and turn on you.”
The Sheriff tensed up. Martin must have hit a nerve. He decided to press onward. “See, you all know something about the plague, don’t you? You’ve seen what it can do to a person, am I right, or am I right?”
The Sheriff looked down and then glanced up at the big man. “So?”
“So we ain’t got the plague here in Hope Springs,” Martin said. “Not yet. Not unless you brought it up here with you. Did you?”
The big man said, “Look, jackass…”
Brent earned his pay. He shoved the man back with the barrel of his rifle. “Shut up while Mr. Martin is talking.”
“We got no choice but to be sure.” Martin licked his lips, already savoring what was to come next. This was delicious. He could already feel his boner pressing against his pants. “Strip down, both of you.”
The Hungry 3: At the End of the World Page 5