The Hungry 3: At the End of the World

by Steven W. Booth

  When the rest of them caught up to him, Crosby was standing still. His weapon was pointing at them.

  So were the assault rifles of six survivalists.

  “Drop your weapons,” Crosby commanded, now sounding confident and fully in control. “Hands up.”

  “What the fuck is this, Carter?” Scratch demanded.

  “Scratch,” said Miller. “Just do it.” She placed her Stoner on the ground, and then the gun she had confiscated from Jimmy. Sheppard did the same, followed by Brandy and Lynn. They had no choice, as Miller saw it.

  “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” Scratch laid the M-60 against a boulder, and set his two bandoliers of ammunition next to it.

  They all put up their hands.

  “General Crosby,” said one of the survivalists. Miller cringed back a bit. It was Martin. “What do you want to do with them?”

  “Collect their weapons and secure them,” Crosby responded.

  “Back up, Carter,” Scratch sputtered. “You’re one of them?”

  Crosby ignored him. “Martin, I brought you some presents,” he said, pointing to the women. “Take them back to the lodge. Get those three out of the way, but don’t kill them yet. Sheppard is coming with me.”

  Miller and Scratch both looked at each other. Then they turned to stare at Sheppard.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “You know, Sheriff,” Crosby said conversationally as they trudged across the frosted ground back to the lodge. “I haven’t decided if I should bless you or curse you for showing up in my little village. You and Sheppard obviously know more than you are saying about the zombie plague. It’s like a puzzle that I have to tease out of you or one of those scrambled-letter cryptograms that I play online. I’ve found the first few letters of the answer to our zombie problems, but the real solution is still eluding me. Your continued comfort and safety are going to depend on how many letters you still have locked away.”

  “You’re out of your goddamned mind if you think we’re going to help you with anything, Carter,” said Scratch. “We’ve dealt with some batshit crazy power-hungry fucks before you, and we didn’t help them, neither.”

  “Jim, you’ve got me wrong. I’m not batshit crazy, and I’m not power-hungry. I’m just trying to do my job.”

  “And what’s that? Kidnapping?” Scratch struggled against the nylon cable ties that bound his hands. He wasn’t interested in his old friend’s new agenda. He just wanted to break free to snap his neck.

  “No, no,” Crosby said. “The Stars and Stripes Brigade is an extra-territorial peacekeeping force. Kind of like the United Nations, if you catch my drift. I’m still the constable of Hope Springs, and the citizens are still my responsibility, but we’ve come up against an enemy that we’ve never encountered before. You people know how to fight them. You know their weaknesses. I can’t do my job without learning what you know.”

  Scratch looked at Penny. She was fuming, but remained silent. Scratch hoped she was coming up with a plan to get them the hell out of this.

  Then Sheppard said, “We’ve already told you what you need to know, Crosby.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. But you sure as hell didn’t tell me everything you know about this. For example, Karl, how do you know so much about the virus? I know you’re like a doctor or something, but where did you pick up all that mitochondria crap?”

  Sheppard did not respond.

  Crosby looked like he was about to continue, but then his face contorted. His speech was interrupted by a loud sneeze. Abruptly, his demeanor changed from friendly and in control to angry and frightened. “Karl, you’re my only link to a cure. I need it, and I need it now. So you better find your fucking tongue, or I swear, I’ll make the other batshit-crazy, power-hungry fucks that you’ve encountered look like the PTA.”

  Crosby took Sheppard by the arm. “I don’t have time for this. Martin, Sheppard and I will be in the cottage. The women are yours to play with. Just remember to pace yourself. You’re still on duty.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Martin. He eyed Miller with a wicked leer. Scratch couldn’t figure a way to stop him. Yet.

  “Take Jim and the boys and put them somewhere for the moment. I’ll come talk to them later.” He pulled on Sheppard, setting off ahead.

  “Sir, we got a problem,” said the survivalist called Brent. “There’s some of those zombie freaks in that clump of trees between us and the lodge.”

  “So, shoot them,” Crosby said. “Hit them in the head, and don’t miss. And they work in threes. Don’t let the third one catch you off guard.”

  “Sir,” Brent said. “We don’t know where they are. None of the guys are exactly jumping up and down to volunteer to go out looking for them.”

  The other four men nodded vigorously in agreement.

  Crosby sighed. He turned to Martin. “Deal with this,” he said. He turned to one of his men. “Come on, we’re taking the long way.” Dragging Sheppard, he headed off in another direction.

  For his part, Scratch watched Martin closely. He seemed on the verge of ordering one of his men to do something stupid. Martin’s eyes fell on Lex.

  “Throw the brat in there,” Martin said. “He might as well be good for something other than crying and pissing himself.”

  Immediately, everyone started screaming objections. Martin cut loose with a few rounds. Things got quiet.

  “Shut up!” Martin turned to his men. “You heard me. Throw the boy in.”

  Brent looked stricken, but he didn’t argue. He picked up Lex by one arm and the back of his pants, and dragged him toward the stand of trees. He swung Lex backwards, set his legs and got ready to hurl the small boy into the gap between the pines.

  “No!” Brandy broke away from her guard. She ran, hands bound, to stop Brent. Seeing that, Martin aimed the machine gun, and fired. The bullet struck Brandy in the back of her thigh. She went down, face first into the frost and snow. Blood pooled by her wounded leg.

  “Looks like we got us a volunteer,” Martin said. He was sneering. “Bring the boy back, and put her in there instead.”

  Brent, still holding Lex by the pants, walked him back to the group of prisoners. He went to where Brandy lay crying and bleeding in the snow. He stood her up, dragged her to the tree line, and pushed her in. They watched in horror as Brandy fell to the ground, unable to stand. She could just barely be seen through the trees. Her sobbing nearly obscured her voice, but she managed one sentence. “Lynn, Jimmy, Lex, I love you!”

  “Oh, God.” Lynn sobbed and pulled at her restraints. Lex wailed. Scratch growled. Jimmy just looked stricken.

  A moment later, they heard the herd approaching.

  Uhh-huuunnnh!

  “Dinner time!” said Brent. He seemed to be enjoying the show, or at least doing his best to appear jaded. Brandy saw the creatures coming and crawled through the snow to get away. The zombies fell on her as one, biting and chewing and slobbering. Brandy screamed in panic and pain.

  “Should we shoot them, boss?” asked Brent.

  Martin stood still. His jaw had dropped open. Scratch watched the man, his face dark with rage. Miller couldn’t tell if Martin was enjoying the spectacle or was horrified by it. He turned to Scratch, ignoring Miller and Lynn. “They work in threes, right? How long before we know there aren’t more of them?”

  “You’re out of your fucking mind, Martin! Shoot them!”

  Brandy screamed again.

  Martin was still for a moment. Then he nodded. “Do it.”

  The other survivalists seemed relieved to be cut loose. They lowered their weapons and fired into the four figures, rendering them to bloody goo.

  Brent moved forward.

  “Hold your position, Brent,” said Martin.

  There was movement in the trees. It was Brandy. She was still alive. No, she wasn’t. She was turning. Scratch could hear her grunting softly. Uhh-huuhh.

  “You unbelievable bastard,” said Miller. “Put that poor girl out of her misery.”

&nbs
p; “You aren’t the one giving orders here,” Martin said with a smirk. He turned to the four remaining survivalists. He waved and ordered them forward.

  The men, Brent particularly, looked scared shitless. They entered the trees slowly and carefully, the snow powdering around their boots. Frost crunched beneath the weight of their bodies. A razor-sharp cold wind cut through the pine forest. Watching, Miller could see that the men were terrified and that their attention was entirely focused on looking for zombies. Scratch stared at Miller. She hoped she saw the same thing. Scratch and Miller both waited for the right time.

  The men moved forward. They walked by the mess that had once been zombies. Poor Brandy was there, and one of the men carefully shined his flashlight on her face. Her eyes were egg white. She reached out for them, grunting with hunger, but she was shredded just below the ribcage. She didn’t offer much of a threat. The men gathered around her, horrified and fascinated.

  The survivalists were still virgins when it came to zombies. Their full attention remained on the undead thing that had once been Brandy.

  It was time. Scratch spun and kicked his guard in the balls. He was sick of being taken prisoner again and again, and took out his anger and frustration on the next guard, the one covering Lynn.

  “Scratch!” shouted Miller.

  He stopped kicking, and turned to look.

  Martin had his pistol to Miller’s head. “Knock that shit off, or your girlfriend is dead!”

  Scratch stopped. He was in a rage, and wanted to tear Martin’s head off and piss down his throat, but there were too many of them, all armed, and he couldn’t possibly take them all with his hands bound. He watched angrily as his guard found his feet and pointed his weapon at Scratch. The guard swung the butt of his assault rifle around, and slammed it into Scratch’s head.

  Scratch groaned and stumbled, but did not fall.

  “Are you done yet?” asked Martin. The gun still to Miller’s head.

  “Fuck you, Skeezix,” said Scratch, but he was done. The opportunity was gone.

  In the woods, one of the men shot Brandy in the brain.

  The guard pushed Scratch, and they headed back to the lodge.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Miller almost felt like a victim, like she had lost all her fight. She never liked feeling that way, and decided that if she could, she would make Martin feel like a victim too. Right before he died. By the time they made it back to the lodge, she was filled with a terrible resolve.

  Martin left them below. He headed up the stairs, followed by a couple of his attack dog survivalists. Crosby was nowhere in sight. He was probably already in the cottage with Sheppard, demanding information. Miller wondered if Sheppard would break and tell the truth, that he’d worked at Crystal Palace and had been involved with the zombie virus from the very beginning. Miller hoped not. She took a moment to worry about Sheppard, but she was feeling so conflicted about the loss of Terrill Lee, and Sheppard’s role in this whole fiasco from the start, that it was hard to feel fully sympathetic.

  Inside the lodge, Miller began to warm up. She was grateful for the return of feeling to her limbs. She looked around the lodge. The fireplace was lit, the fire crackling almost cheerfully. Miller suddenly realized that she had been in the lodge for a little over a day, and had yet had a chance to just sit in front of the fire and drink one glass of wine. There was something terribly sad about that simple fact. The world had once again become such a dark and heartbreaking place.

  “Penny?”

  Miller sagged against Scratch. He seemed to sense her mood and caught her weight. She knew he would have held her if his hands had not been bound. Miller closed her eyes for a moment. She felt the loss of everything since the first day of the zombie apocalypse, all the death and destruction weighing down on her. She’d lost her home. Her job. Her cat. And all those people. A movie ran behind her eyelids. So many dead. Her deputy, Bob Wells, and his son, Lance. Luther Grabowsky. Needles. That poor biker chick, Darla. Dale and Cochrane from Rat’s team. Psycho. Elizabeth, the little girl eaten by the cultists in the hills. Hell, to a certain extent, Miller even missed the bad guys, Sanchez and Father Abraham. At least they had also been human once. The world had lost too many people and many of those who were left hardly seemed worth saving. There was something about this group of men that wasn’t human. Their sad alpha male philosophy had reduced them to shallow animals, strutting like roosters, still unaware of the overwhelming number of enemies they’d have to face, completely ignorant of the weary moral cost of shooting what had once been your friends and neighbors. Assuming they survived that long.

  Time would teach them, of course, and the hard way.

  Some of the townspeople had gathered near the fireplace. They looked cold and scared and, like everyone else in Hope Springs, in way over their heads. Miller thought she recognized one of the faces, though she did not recall her name. A woman who saw them tied up and looked away, her face sagging from an emotion that might have been guilt.

  As they marched Miller past the throng of scared locals and up the stairs where they had been told Martin was waiting, she realized that she had almost forgotten someone in her brief remembrance. She hated herself for that. Perhaps the memory had been just too recent and too painful to bear when coupled with all of the other losses.

  Poor Terrill Lee…

  Miller climbed the stairs. She thought of Terrill Lee locked in that little room below. He had to be dead by now, or he’d gone stark raving mad from the virus, if he’d failed to shoot himself, that poor baby. She had loved him so. Back when they were both young and foolish and ridiculously hormonal. He’d been so brave at the end. He had made her promise to survive. And Miller vowed she would continue to fight. Ending up as some kind of a sex slave was not survival. She would need to figure out a way to get everyone out of this mess, to escape one last time. She had to. She was responsible for these people.

  They were led to the suite where Miller had spent her one and only night’s sleep at the lodge. Abruptly, Miller stopped. In a flash of heat and grief she wished she had spent that one quiet, beautiful night in bed with Scratch. She wished that they had made love.

  “Keep moving.”

  Miller shook away the regret. She stepped up onto the top floor landing. Some of the rooms were closed, but some doors stood open and they could see men inside drinking wine and partying. Weary snipers stood at the upstairs window. Someone had taped the glass to make small firing holes. Cold air rushed inside to flood the lodge.

  Miller and Lynn were pushed into a large, top floor suite. Most of the men remained outside. The door was quickly shut behind them.

  Martin was waiting in the sitting area . He lounged on the couch, arrogant and calm, drinking directly from a bottle of wine. Miller glared at him. He had country music playing from somewhere, a male artist Miller didn’t recognize.

  Someone shoved Miller and Lynn closer to the couch. Martin didn’t stand. Instead, he insisted with his eyes that the ladies be led before him, as if he were some kind of demented pharaoh. Most of the remaining men exited. Miller heard footsteps and the suite door closed. She checked out the room, taking stock of the situation. Four armed men, who stood half at attention, flanked Martin. He was now looking down at something—some papers—the better to show his authority. He ignored them for a few moments. Yeah, the little prick is just setting the scene, Miller thought. Little boy Martin is trying to show us that he is the boss.

  They heard some shouts from outside the room. Another barrage of shots rang out from the hall. The noise boomed through the building. The zombies were still out there, still coming. Miller thought she’d detected a touch of panic in those human voices. Perhaps they’d begun to realize how badly they’d soon be outnumbered. Every human killed could eventually be turned, unless shot through the head. If you added up all the townspeople in the area, all the panicked drivers on the highways, and the starving population of Denver and Fort Collins already on the run, there were going to
be one fuck of a lot of zombies up here and damned soon. The more noise they made the more creatures they attracted. The more they attracted, the more they made.

  Miller figured they’d make it through the night, but just barely.

  Martin finally looked up. He surveyed Miler and Lynn as if they were slaves at some kind of auction.

  “Why, if it isn’t Sheriff Penelope J. Miller of Flat Rock, Nevada.” Martin held up one particular piece of paper. It looked a lot like an arrest report. Miller reckoned the little bastard had retrieved it from Crosby’s office whenever Crosby had let him out. It was obvious now that’s what happened. “You sure got a lot of fight in you. Trouble is, these days that kind of thing can get a girl killed, you know.”

  Miller stood tall. She said nothing. Terrill Lee, you rest easy. I’m going to figure a way out of this.

  Martin stood. He came toward them. Lynn was the closest to him, and he stopped before her. She was quaking in her boots. He soaked up her fear like nectar. “Now take this one, for example. I bet she knows her place.”

  Lynn whimpered. Martin moved to touch her. She flinched.

  “Shh,” Martin cooed. “It’s all right now. You’re safe with me.”

  Miller wanted to say, like Brandy was safe with you? But she held her tongue. Who knew what other cruelties Martin was capable of?

  To emphasize who was in charge, Martin drew a vintage Colt Peacemaker. He brushed up against Lynn’s cheek. The gun looked huge. The phallic implications were obvious. Lynn was panic stricken, but stayed frozen in place. Her wild eyes looked at Miller for help. Miller gauged the situation.

  “Knock it off, Martin.” Miller moved to protect the girl, but the other armed men pointed their weapons at Lynn. Not at Miller herself. Martin had prepared them. Their message was clear. She was to live. Miller wouldn’t be doing them any good if she got Lynn killed, not after what happened to Brandy. Reluctantly, Miller stood down. Martin grinned. She loathed this desperate little douche bag. She could smell his stench from several feet away.