The Hungry 3: At the End of the World

by Steven W. Booth

  “I bet you got a lot to offer a man, don’t you, sweet thing?” Slowly, so Miller could see, Martin placed his hand on Lynn’s left breast. He gave a rough squeeze.

  Lynn squealed in terror. She backed into one of the armed guards, who pushed her back toward Martin. Martin continued to posture for his leering men. The guard was carefully holding her at arm’s length, just far enough away to cover her with his assault rifle. Miller searched the faces of the guards, looking for anyone the least bit sympathetic. They all seemed either bored or amused. Another shot rang out from outside. One of the men showed a flicker of concern.

  “Let’s see what else you got, honey girl.” Martin moved closer to Lynn. He cupped his hand under her crotch.

  “All right, we get the point,” Miller said. She took a step forward. One of the guards grabbed her by the elbow, but she shook his grip away. “You don’t want her, anyway, do you Martin? You want me.”

  Martin smiled.

  Miller stood before him, tall and proud. “I’m right here and this time you have the guns and a ton of support to back you up. Are you man enough to come take it?”

  “Oh, I’ve heard that song twice before, Penelope J. And you managed to escape my sights both times. Fool me three times? Not likely. But you aren’t giving orders here anyway, are you, girl?”

  Suddenly Martin took Lynn by the chin. He gave her a leisurely kiss, apparently in no hurry. Miller tried to think of another distraction, a way to protect the other woman. Lynn tried to endure it but then screeched. Martin continued to grind his mouth against hers. Lynn tried to knee him. Martin stepped to the side and grabbed her throat, forcing her on her toes. She whimpered then took a deep breath.

  Lynn bit Martin on the lip. She bit down hard.

  Martin pulled away with a grunt, his lower lip torn open. He looked shocked and frightened more than angry.

  Lynn spat the piece of his lip on the floor. She dared to look triumphant. Down the hall, someone shouted about watching the windows.

  Martin put his right hand up to his face. He pulled it away. The blood was wet and sticky on his fingers. He slowly recovered his poise. Martin showed the blood to Lynn, stepped close again. Lynn stared bravely into his eyes. Martin smiled, blood drooling down his chin. Before Miller could react, he raised his Peacemaker, put it under Lynn’s chin, and pulled the trigger. BOOM! Lynn’s brains splattered against the guard standing behind her and up onto the ceiling. She fell backwards into the arms of the guard.

  “You bastard!” Miller began struggling against her restraints.

  Martin wagged his finger at her. He smiled, his face smeared with blood. He cocked the big Colt again. “You’re going to play nice now, aren’t you?”

  Silence flooded the room as everyone took in what had just happened. Miller worked to think of a plan, a way out. Death was everywhere around them. The world had gone mad. Martin had gone too far to recover his humanity. He’d kill her in the end.

  The shooting outside slowed down for a bit. Someone shouted Martin’s name, wanting to ask him for orders. Martin shook himself like a wet dog. He started to call out but then paused. A thin stream of blood wound its way down through the stubble on his chin. He gathered himself and finally responded.

  “What is it?”

  The voice called back, “We need more ammo. Sure are a lot of these ugly dead fuckers down there.”

  “Davis?” Martin waved his hand magnanimously to one of his honor guards. “Take care of it.” Martin turned to the two remaining men. “Get the corpse out of here.”

  The men slung their weapons over their shoulders. One of the men looked relieved to be leaving, as if he’d rather take his chances with the undead than remain with Martin. They picked Lynn’s corpse up by the arms and legs, and hauled her out of the room like a prize deer. Miller tried not to picture them tying Brandy to a front fender. She didn’t quite succeed.

  Martin turned to her.

  “Come on, little girl,” said Martin. He spoke with that cold, adolescent sneer in his voice. “It’s just you and me, now.”

  Miller stared. Martin unbuckled his belt.

  Terrill Lee’s voice filled Miller’s mind.

  Survive.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “You can’t be serious,” Sheppard said. The sound of shooting nearby punctuated his statement.

  “Why do you keep saying that?” Crosby secured the braided steel cable around Sheppard’s leg. “What exactly am I doing that gives you the impression that I’m not serious?” Crosby tested the other end of the cable where it looped around a pipe protruding from the wall in Greta’s kitchen. “That should do.”

  Sheppard looked around Greta’s pantry. “You want me to make you a zombie antivirus. Right here. In this kitchen.”

  “Yes, and you want it too. ‘Cause if you don’t, and I get sick, Jim Bob here is going to use you for carving practice while we all watch.”

  The fellow in question, a big man almost too tall for the small cottage kitchen, produced a wicked-looking fighting knife. He showed it to Sheppard. He smiled, showing teeth either crooked or missing. The two other guards laughed. Crosby turned to them, and with a cold glance, ordered them to keep an eye out for zombies or anything else that might be considered a threat. Crosby had business to attend to.

  “I don’t know the first thing about creating a zombie antivirus,” Sheppard protested.

  Crosby shook his head. “We both know that’s not true.”

  Sheppard studied the man with the knife. He changed his tune. “I’ll do it when I know my friends are safe.”

  “You’ll do it or Jim Bob is going to start cutting bits off of you, beginning with your pecker.”

  Jim Bob smiled again.

  “If you hurt my friends, then you can cut off any part of me you want, because I won’t do a fucking thing to help you.”

  Crosby nodded to Jim Bob, who moved closer. “You sure about that?”

  Sheppard looked at the knife. He crossed his arms. “I’m ready to die for my friends.”

  “Jim Bob,” said Crosby casually. “Maybe you’d best explain to this man what he’s really up against.”

  Sheppard was anchored to the pipe, but otherwise free to move around. He darted to the left, then the right. When Jim Bob got close enough, the smaller man tried to head butt him in the gut. But Jim Bob was as wide as he was tall. He barely registered the impact. He grabbed Sheppard by the arm, and showed him the knife up close. He ran it down Sheppard’s right cheek, leaving a thin trail of blood. Sheppard fought back, kicking and grunting. Crosby could see that Jim Bob had his hands full. He nodded to the two other men. They stepped forward and took hold of each of Sheppard’s wrists. They held him tight.

  Jim Bob put the blade against Sheppard’s chest. He waited, then chuckled and carved a gash across his pectoral muscle.

  Sheppard flinched. He didn’t scream. Crosby was actually disappointed. He was hoping for more of a show.

  “Go ahead and kill me,” Sheppard said. “If you do, or if you let Martin hurt my friends, you’ll never get what you want.”

  “Fuck it.” Crosby sighed. He turned to another one of the guards. “Max, go find the redhead and the biker, and bring them both back here.”

  “And the others, too,” said Sheppard, relaxing. He scanned the room. Jim Bob stood nearby with the knife.

  Crosby nodded. “Them too.”

  Max ran out of the kitchen. Sheppard and Crosby could hear the door slam.

  Crosby said, “Let him go.”

  The two men let go of Sheppard’s wrists.

  “We’re in a hurry, Karl. Let’s get to work.”

  The pain and shock had settled in. Sheppard was panting like a dog after a long run. He held his chest. He looked up at Jim Bob, and considered. “I’m going to need some things,” he said, after a long pause. “We’ll be making things up as we go along.”

  “I figured that much.” He nodded to Jim Bob, who sheathed the knife and produced a red bag. He h
anded that to Sheppard.

  “This is a first aid kit.” Sheppard held up gauze and iodine with a perplexed look on his face.

  Crosby could feel his frustration rise. “There are syringes in there, right? You need those for the antivirus. There are gloves in there too. You have all the cooking equipment you need in those cabinets there. What else do you need?”

  “None of this is sterile,” Sheppard said weakly.

  “So sterilize it. There’s a stovetop right there.” Crosby huffed. “I’m getting impatient, Karl. You’re making excuses. I promise you, you will be a lot happier if you get down to work.”

  Sheppard thought for a moment. “Okay, but I’m going to need a zombie. A live one.”

  “You’ll settle for a fresh dead one. I sent one of the men out to secure one a while back. What else?”

  Sheppard looked around the kitchen, as if searching for something out of reach. “I’ll let you know once I get to work on the zombie.” He started to say something else, thought better of it, and began again. “Crosby, this is going to take a while.”

  “You have between now and my next sneeze. Work fast.” Crosby pointed his finger. His hand was trembling. “Don’t even think about double-crossing me and concocting some kind of poison. That would be a bad choice.”

  Sheppard started to boil water and sterilize the counter with alcohol. Crosby went to inspect his troops. From what he had seen so far, the Zombie War—as he had dubbed it—was going very well. The Stars and Stripes Brigade had taken few casualties, whereas there was a growing tally of enemy casualties being racked up by his snipers and his infantry. He had secured his initial goal early on in the Battle of Harrison Lodge, and it wouldn’t be long before his men found a way into Gunter’s bunker, which had always been his ultimate goal. Once he had that safe haven, and the weapons and supplies Gunter had amassed, he could wait out the Zombie War in style.

  All he needed was a cure.

  If what Sheppard and Miller had told him earlier that day was true, then any one of his people could already be infected. He needed that antivirus. Carter Crosby was no idiot. He knew that real science wasn’t like it was on TV. Sheppard wouldn’t be able to create the antivirus in an hour, not counting commercials, but how long could it really take? A day? A couple of days? Antiviruses were just dead viruses, right? Sheppard would be able to do whatever he needed in Greta’s kitchen, and run some tests on a couple of people from the village. If they didn’t die, they had their antivirus. If they did die, Crosby would have Jim Bob cut off Sheppard’s right pinky toe and cauterize it with a blowtorch. There should be incentive enough for him to get back to work.

  Crosby entered the lodge. He was very pleased by the men and their appearance. Someone had assigned sentries to guard the doors and windows. Other men were in the café cleaning and loading weapons. A few men seemed to be on break in the sitting area before the fire, chatting quietly, their weapons nearby. One was reading a novel—presumably from the big bookshelf that stood near the large picture windows on the west side of the lodge. Their morale seemed excellent. Snow fell lightly outside.

  Apart from the unpleasantness with Jim and Sheriff Miller, things were going very much according to plan.

  Crosby was still worried about having contracted the zombie virus, but he knew he could survive with it in his system for a time, as long as nothing else killed him. That’s what Sheppard had said during his science lesson, even though he didn’t know he had said it. Michelle was weak, and had let it overtake her, probably because she’d caught the flu or a common cold. Crosby wasn’t weak, however. When he had the antivirus, he would be right as rain and he and his men could wait out the apocalypse in style.

  Crosby approached one of the sentries, who came immediately to attention.

  “Have you seen Max?”

  “Sir. No, sir!”

  “Where are the prisoners?”

  “Sir, the adult male is in room 8 upstairs. The children are in room 10. Sir.”

  “Very good. Carry on.”

  Crosby headed up the stairs. He took them two at a time. He came out onto the landing, and turned left to go towards room 8.

  Crosby knocked on the door. The response came at once.

  “Identify yourself.”

  “It’s Crosby.”

  The door was opened immediately. Crosby stepped in to find Scratch sitting on the bed looking pissed.

  “Stand guard.” Crosby pulled a chair close to Scratch, sat in it, and said, as casually as he could muster, “Hey, Jim.”

  “Fuck you, Carter,” Scratch growled.

  “Oh, there’s no need to be nasty. I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Yeah, and I want to kick your ass.”

  Crosby could feel his frustration rising again. What is it with these people? “I came here to make peace.”

  “You have got to be shitting me! Have you got any idea what that guy Martin did? He fed Brandy to the zombies, but only after trying to do the same thing to Lex. He’s a fucking animal. And he’s working for you. You ‘gave’ him the women. Do you have any idea what’s he going to do to Penny and Lynn on your watch?”

  “Nothing’s going to happen,” said Crosby. It wasn’t exactly a lie, just an alternate representation of the truth. “I’ll see to that. But that’s not what I came here to discuss with you.”

  “I could give a flying fuck what you want to discuss.”

  Crosby took a deep breath. “I understand you are angry, and feeling betrayed right now, but I want to make it up to you.”

  “Oh, right. How are you going to do that?”

  “I want to bring you back into the fold. I need good men like you.”

  “For what?”

  Crosby turned to the guard. “Resume your post outside the door.” Crosby leaned in close. “Martin’s a loose cannon, we both know that. After that little stunt he pulled in the woods this morning, I’m not sure I can trust him anymore. I need someone I can count on, Jim. Scratch. I need you.”

  “Me? Are you out of your Goddamned mind? Do I look like some kind of a tin soldier to you?”

  “You’re good with command,” Crosby said. “And you’re good with taking orders. I’ve watched you with the Sheriff. That’s exactly what I look for in one of my top men.”

  Crosby expected a quick retort. Scratch just looked at him thoughtfully. Finally he said, “I’m not doing a fucking thing for you until I know my friends are safe.”

  “They’re safe. I guarantee it.”

  “And that asshole Martin. I want to get my hands around his throat.”

  Crosby nodded. “You won’t have to worry about Martin when it comes to that. I’ll take care of him myself.”

  “And Penny Miller,” Scratch said. “She’s mine. If Martin so much as touches her, the deal’s off.”

  “Does that mean we have a deal?” Crosby extended his hand.

  “If my friends are okay, yeah, I’ll be your sidekick. Why not? You’ve obviously got this zombie thing wired. I’m sick to death of running. I need to put down roots. You’re the best offer I’m likely to get. But if anything has happened to Penny…” He let the thought hang there.

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  Scratch looked Crosby in the eye. The threat was obvious.

  “Okay,” Crosby said. “I need to know that you’re serious, though. I’m going to bring the guard in here, and we’re going to cut your hands loose. Wait here with the guard, and I’ll bring your friends up here.”

  Scratch hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Deal.”

  “Guard?”

  The door was open in an instant. Max stood there. He looked nervous, his eyes shifting back and forth. “General Crosby, sir? May I have a word?”

  Crosby walked outside. “Phil? Cut his hands loose, and keep him here until I get back. He’s agreed to be cooperative.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Phil. He entered the room and closed the door behind him.

  “What is it, Max?”

  M
ax opened his mouth, but paused as if trying to find the right words. “The blonde girl is dead, sir. Uh, and the brunette…”

  “I know about the brunette. Where’s Sheriff Miller?”

  “Upstairs. She’s with Martin.”

  Crosby sighed. It was a long, angry breath. “Show me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Miller didn’t move. Time had slowed to a crawl. The firing had resumed down below as another wave of zombies attacked the lodge. Martin was pointing the Colt directly at Miller. An evil smile was on his blood-smeared lips. “We’re going to do this—now—my way.”

  “Wait,” Miller said, “just wait.”

  “Wait for what?”

  “I know you’ll kill me if I don’t cooperate. I don’t want to die, not like that, not like Lynn.” Miller lowered her eyes, hoping he couldn’t read her thoughts. “I’m done fighting. The zombies are everywhere. I don’t have my men to protect me any longer. I can’t do this anymore.”

  Martin eyed her suspiciously. Miller looked up at him with her head lowered. She tried to look vulnerable—which is exactly how she felt at the moment. She hated the feeling, but at the moment she let that work to her advantage. “I’ll be a good girl. Your girl.”

  Miller tested the nylon cable ties that bound her hands. They weren’t flex cuffs—there would be no way in hell she could have gotten out of those—and while they weren’t getting any looser, they weren’t so tight that she couldn’t do something given time. If she didn’t mind losing some skin, she might just be able to get out of them. And quite frankly, losing some skin was far and away better than being raped by Martin.

  “Now, see, that ain’t how this works.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t get to con me again.” Martin put away the Peacemaker and drew a double-edged blade. “You’re too used to having things your way, Sheriff. You’re like a filly, proud and so sure of yourself. You need to be broken before you’ll be of any use to me.” He took a step forward and pulled the front of her shirt out of the hem of her jeans. “You’re going to thank me for this.”