The Hungry 3: At the End of the World

by Steven W. Booth

  Some people outside ran by, feet thumping on the sidewalk, voices arguing. Scratch and Michelle looked out and saw them through the front window. There was a husband, carrying two cardboard boxes and a hunting rifle. Beside him trotted a squat woman and two young girls. They were all carrying grocery bags full of water bottles and food.

  “Michelle,” Scratch said urgently. “It’s time to go. Lock up or don’t. It won’t matter either way in a day or two, trust me. But you don’t want to be here. Please. Get out of the village. Go home and secure your kids. Trust me on this, take my word on it, the shit has officially hit the fan. You gotta believe me.”

  Scratch gently put his hand out. He took charge. She was too shaken to think straight. Scratch took Michelle’s arm. He led her past the sprawled corpse once known as Greta. Took her past the goods covered with scattered gore and towards the front door. He helped her close and double lock the front door. Her business was closed, likely forever. His heart went out to her. She’d lost everything. They stood staring at each other.

  “Jim…?”

  “Don’t talk. Move.”

  The air went out of Michelle. Reluctantly, she allowed Scratch to take her the rest of the way outside and into the daylight. She paused for a moment, blinking furiously, but seemed to decide not to turn around and look back. Townspeople were scattered everywhere, loading up trucks and spinning wheels in the ice and mud as they left Hope Springs. Scratch watched Michelle carefully. Their boots crunched down on the thin veneer of ice coating the cracked sidewalk.

  Scratch spotted their old minivan, the one Greta had stolen. It was parked sideways on the corner, door open. A long blood trail led from it, up the steps and all the way to the now shuttered store.

  “My truck is this way,” Michelle said.

  “Good,” Scratch said, gently. “Go home. I’m sorry I didn’t have the opportunity to say a proper hello after all these years, but right now I have to get back up to the lodge. Just like Sheriff Miller said, I need to warn my friends about what’s coming. We all knew it would catch up to us eventually, just not this soon.”

  Scratch went to the minivan and pulled the back door open. The moneybag was there. He opened it up. A few stray bills were there, covered in mud and something that looked a lot like congealed blood. The keys were nowhere to be found. It was useless. They could be anywhere.

  He stepped back, exasperated. Scratch had turned and was heading back to where the horses were tied up when he noticed that Michelle was still standing there, waiting for him. “I thought you were going home.”

  “Jim,” said Michelle, meeting his eyes, “if the world really is going to hell right now, there’s something you should know.”

  “What?”

  “Please come with me. This won’t take long.”

  Scratch figured the horses were tied up out of sight enough to risk leaving them for a spell. He followed Michelle, wondering what was on her mind. The little village quieted down as most of the occupants had already fled for their lives.

  They reached Michelle’s dark green SUV. Scratch registered that it had a sticker on the back, one of those things with the outlines of a mother and her kids. No dad.

  Michelle opened the doors to the vehicle. “Get in. I need to show you something. It’s important.”

  “Michelle, we really don’t have time for this. Please just tell me what’s going on.”

  “Yes, you do have time for this,” she said firmly, though he noticed that her hands were shaking. They hadn’t been before. “I’ll make it quick. Ten minutes tops and you’re on your way back to your friends. Get in.”

  Scratch felt his pulse quicken. His mind flew up the mountain to the lodge, worrying about Terrill Lee and Sheppard, then back down to the jail with deep concern for Miller’s safety. Scratch was frustrated. Michelle was clearly serious as a stroke. He’d seldom felt so torn. “Look, either tell me now or don’t. One way or the other, I’m going.”

  “Fine. I’ll tell you. I want you to meet your son.”

  Scratch felt his knees buckle. The maniacal world seemed far away. “Wait. My…?”

  “He’s yours, from all those years ago.”

  “But…” Scratch closed his eyes. He suddenly remembered their last night together, the heat of it all. The way they had been together before he’d left for good. He opened his eyes again. No matter what kind of mental gymnastics he went through, he couldn’t think of a single reason not to believe Michelle.

  “His name is James Franklin Bowen. Junior.”

  Michelle opened the door to the SUV. She slid inside and sat stiff in the driver’s seat. “Like I said, if the world is going to come crashing down then you two should at least meet. Now get in. Ten minutes and I’ll drive you back.”

  Scratch couldn’t think of anything else to do. He got in the truck. “Michelle,” he said, after a long moment, “I can’t get my head around this.”

  Michelle turned to look at him. She gave a short, sharp laugh. “Let me get this straight. You believe in zombies but you don’t think a young woman could get pregnant? After the things we did? Maybe your memory has gone bad, but you had more than enough opportunities to seal that particular deal.”

  Scratch stared out the front window as they headed up a steep slope. “I never even considered this might have happened. I had no idea.”

  Michelle drove off. They lurched through a mud puddle. Pine trees passed by the tinted windows like sentries standing watch. “No idea? That’s kind of hard to believe. I always figured you had a pretty good idea I was knocked up. In fact, you and your brother took off right before my father could track you down. Even your parents knew about this. All you had to do was give them a call somewhere along the way, and they would have told you.”

  Michelle turned down a long side street and into an alley. Scratch shook his head slowly. “I wasn’t talking to my parents when I left. And the couple of times we spoke before they both up and died in that wreck, they didn’t choose to bring anything up. I guess they figured I was a bad apple so why bother.”

  Michelle drove to the end of the alley and onto a quiet street near the edge of the tiny mountain village. Scratch could feel her tension growing. True to her word, they were only a few blocks from the horses.

  “We’re here,” she said.

  The SUV rolled forward a few more yards. They finally stopped outside a worn but clean little house on a large piece of well-kept property. The house was brown with white trim, and several large green trees framed it against the cloudy blue sky. Snow had piled up in the rain gutters and the yard was sparkling with frost. Someone had begun to string Christmas lights around the porch. The job was unfinished.

  “Try to make a good impression, Jim.”

  Scratch stepped out of the truck and into a small patch of clear, un-melted ice. He swallowed dryly, wishing for a couple of beers to take away both his thirst and a steadily growing sense of anxiety. Turns out zombies frightened him far less than the thought of being a father. “What am I supposed to say?”

  Michelle came around the front of the SUV. “You’re a smart guy, Jim. You’ll figure it out. He calls himself Jimmy, like you used to. I suggest you start by saying hello, and then make it up from there.”

  Michelle led Scratch up the concrete steps. The hinges squealed. She went into the kitchen and took off her bloodied long-sleeved shirt. Her t-shirt was untouched by the blood. Michelle washed her hands obsessively for about two minutes before she was satisfied.

  As she dried her hands, she shouted, “Jimmy, Lex, I’m home! There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  “Who’s Lex?” Scratch asked weakly, almost as an aside.

  “My other son,” Michelle said simply. She didn’t offer anything else.

  The living room was sparsely furnished with restored antiques. It had one small television and was filled with toys. Loud rap music played from another room. Eventually, two boys appeared from the back of the house. They strolled down the hallway that led
from the kitchen. One was about fifteen years old, and the other, who was smiling brightly, was probably still around eight.

  “Who’s this winner, Mom?” asked the older boy. “We got ourselves another new boyfriend?”

  Scratch glanced at Michelle. He wondered what that said about her. The brief flash of judgment wasn’t pretty, but it gave him some relief from the self-loathing he’d been experiencing. Unfortunately, the plus didn’t last for long.

  “Not exactly, sweetheart,” Michelle said, without a trace of irony. “This one is more like an old boyfriend.” Michelle turned to Scratch and scorched him with her gaze. “Why don’t you formally introduce yourself?”

  Scratch wiped his sweaty palm on his jeans and put it out to shake hands. “Hey, kid. I’m Scratch.”

  Michelle cleared her throat. “Jimmy, this man’s name is Jim Bowen. I’m going to get right to the point. He’s your father.”

  The faint rap music faded into something a little more adult-contemporary. A clock ticked in the quiet living room. Scratch kept his hand out. The little boy stepped back. Jimmy made no move to take Scratch’s proffered hand. He looked at Scratch for a long time. “You’ve got to be kidding me. He’s my father? Jesus, Mom, he’s an old biker or something. You couldn’t have done any better than this?”

  Scratch was astounded to hear his own voice bark, “Hey, you don’t talk to your mother that way!”

  “I don’t have time for this shit,” Jimmy said. He turned to leave.

  “Jimmy, stay here,” Michelle ordered.

  After a moment, Jimmy stopped. Then he turned back.

  Meanwhile, Lex looked up at Scratch, and asked, “Are you my daddy, too?”

  Scratch looked down at the smaller boy who was wide-eyed with curiosity. He smiled kindly. “No, kid. Just him.”

  Michelle crouched down. She looked at Lex at eye level, but addressed both sons. “We have a big problem right now, and we’re going to have to hurry. Something bad happened over at the store. Something scary is going on out there. We all need to run. Right now, I need you two to pack up your stuff. We’re all going to go stay at Harrison Lodge with Scratch and his friends.”

  “Your mother is right,” Scratch said, though he was a bit taken aback by the sudden change of direction. “This is an emergency.”

  The teen grimaced but didn’t argue further. Scratch looked at Michelle, his eyes wide. Had she just invited herself along to the lodge? Was he really allowing that to happen? With the kids, too? What is Penny going to think?

  Michelle said, “Let’s go get your clothes, and don’t forget to bring lots of toys. We may be up there for quite a while.”

  Scratch gathered his scattered thoughts. “Michelle, we need to talk.”

  Michelle ignored him. “Go on upstairs, boys. I’ll be there in a few minutes to help.”

  The kids disappeared. Michelle stood and turned to Scratch, hands on hips, eyes blazing “I still don’t know what the hell is going on, or if I believe in this zombie horseshit, but it’s obvious you do.”

  “You saw what happened to her. You just don’t want to admit it to yourself.”

  Michelle nodded slowly. Her eyes brimmed with tears. She cocked her head as if asking if there were some way out of the terrible reality he was presenting.

  Scratch shook his head. “They’re real.”

  “Then you’re going to take us with you.”

  “I’m not sure I can promise…”

  “Look. Something’s very wrong with the world. We need your help. If you’re right, and I’m starting to believe you even if Crosby doesn’t, all hell’s about to break loose. If your people are already up there fortifying the lodge against zombies, and can help my sons stay alive, then that’s where we’re all going, too. End of story.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  On the ride to up Harrison Lodge, Jimmy listened to some old ‘90s grunge on his earphones while he tried to wrap his mind around the idea that this scraggly, tattooed, long-haired old fart was actually his father. Mom had brought home her fair share of boyfriends over the years. Some were nice. Some were dicks. Most of them eventually beat up on her, and occasionally Jimmy and Lex. But then most of them were also right-wing gun nuts with delusions of grandeur. For much of his life in between, Jimmy had been the man of the house, and now he wasn’t about to let this guy hurt his family. Something was very wrong. The village was emptying out. He’d even heard the word zombie. Which was beyond cool.

  Zombies? Damn!

  Jimmy turned the volume down so he could think. He kept the ear buds in and pretended he was still caught up in the music. His little brother Lex played with some Lego toys, seemingly clueless and as annoying as usual. They drove up the road, circling around the village down below. The thick woods and scattered cabins seemed almost deserted now, but with trash everywhere, as if the people had rushed around, clumsily dropping stuff in the snow. Jimmy was smart enough to put things together. He figured an epidemic of some kind, or even maybe a war. The zombie thing might have happened, like in the video game. They’d all find out soon enough.

  Michelle drove. Scratch sat in the front seat, not saying anything, looking back over his shoulder at Jimmy like he was stunned and couldn’t believe it either. Jimmy was much better prepared for what was coming—he had been subjected to a series of new dads every couple of years. He guessed from the biker’s face that this was the first time Scratch had even contemplated having a son.

  They arrived at the lodge after a few minutes. Jimmy had only been up to Harrison once before. It was big and luxurious and supposed to be pretty expensive, but Jimmy refused to be impressed. He would rather have stayed at home in his own room, with his games, his tech books, and the use of his laptop in private. The things that kept Jimmy sane, that were his only companions. He was way smarter than the other kids, and knew it. They called him a nerd and beat him up at school. His mom had been telling him for years that when he got a little older he’d make some new friends, but Jimmy knew he’d always be an outsider in Hope Springs. And now he knew why, too. It was genetic. If Scratch was his father, he had no chance at all at being cool. He was totally butt-fucked.

  Forever.

  His Mom parked the SUV. Jimmy watched through the front windshield as a pair of stern men came out of the lodge, carrying hunting rifles. Great, he thought, more dumb-ass survivalists.

  Jimmy noticed that Lex was struggling with his bag, so he decided to fall back on his primary role. Mom liked it when he played the helpful older brother. It scored points with her. Without a word, he took Lex’s bag and his own, and stepped out of the truck into the cool shadow of a snow-powdered pine. Wind ruffled his hair. He felt sharp and clear inside like something important was happening to him.

  Scratch had crossed the clearing and was already talking to the two new men. They kept their voices low, but their tone was urgent, at times almost angry. He heard someone mention the word Constable. Jimmy strolled closer, cleverly eavesdropping while he pretended to adjust his brother’s bag.

  Scratch said to the tall, skinny, paler man, “We have a major malfunction. They are already on the mountain.”

  “Yeah, right,” the other man said. “There’s no way the zombies could have gotten here this fast.”

  “Terrill Lee,” the handsome man said, “he’s serious.”

  Jimmy was thrilled by the word. He’d used it to his classmates claiming that the end of the world was coming. Now these guys were actually talking about real zombies? It was probably still a load of shit, but way beyond cool if it was true. Zombies and the Apocalypse.

  The men continued to ignore Jimmy.

  “How many?” asked Terrill Lee.

  “Greta came back and turned zombie. No sign of the money. Penny had to shoot her in front of everyone. The Constable doesn’t believe what’s on the radio is really what’s happening, so Penny got herself arrested.”

  Terrill Lee deflated. “Great.” He looked at Scratch, genuinely concerned. “How are you hold
ing up?”

  “I’m fine, but I’ll be better when we get Penny out of jail.”

  The other man cleared his throat. “You want to introduce us to your friends, Scratch?”

  Scratch turned to face Jimmy. He waved his arms to introduce everyone. “Karl, Terrill Lee, this is Michelle Kent, and her two sons. This big one here’s Jimmy Bowen, and the little one there is named Lex.”

  The one called Karl looked stunned. He said, “Jimmy Bowen?”

  Scratch took a deep breath. “Junior.”

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” the dude called Karl muttered. He shook his head and studied Jimmy. When he relaxed he had handsome features. For his part, Jimmy wondered why this Karl guy couldn’t be his father, someone a whole lot better looking—and tons smarter, from the sound of it.

  The nice man said, “I’m Karl Sheppard.”

  Jimmy nodded.

  Terrill Lee was staring hard at Michelle. Jimmy cringed a bit, as he always did when some pervert checked out his mom.

  “It’s a pleasure, Ms. Kent,” Terrill Lee said, holding out his hand.

  “Michelle,” she corrected, shaking his hand.

  Oh, that’s perfect, thought Jimmy, someone new hitting on her. He looks like a stray dog dry humping the side of an easy chair. Adults are so damned gross.

  “Come on inside,” said Terrill Lee. He was offering her his arm, a Southern gentlemen. Jimmy studied Scratch, who seemed to be indifferent to the exchange. Karl was shaking his head sadly, like he’d seen it all before. That makes two of us.

  “Lex,” Michelle called, “come with me.”

  “Karl,” Scratch called. “Come and help me unload all this gear. You too, Jimmy.”

  Jimmy bristled. “I don’t even know you. Stop telling me what to do.”

  Michelle turned to him. She stared him down evenly. “Jimmy, please go help unload the truck.”

  Jimmy resisted a tad for show, but soon he obeyed. He slung Lex’s backpack over his shoulder, and picked up his own, and then handled a box of canned goods. Terrill Lee and his Mom had already taken Lex inside. The temperature was falling and a new wind came up. Shivering, Jimmy followed Scratch and Karl up the path and into the hunting lodge. Scratch kicked the big doors shut behind them and Sheppard locked them in.