The Hungry 5: All Hell Breaks Loose (The Sheriff Penny Miller Series)

by Booth, Steven

  “Agreed.”

  Brandon’s voice floated up from the back of the van. “Sheriff, they have the high ground and we’re sitting ducks. One mini-gun and they could wipe us out in about 5 seconds.”

  “Calm down,” Sheppard said. “Penny will figure this out.”

  “But they’re not shooting,” Miller said. “They’re trying to intimidate us. That could mean that they can’t afford to waste any ammunition. Maybe they desperately want to capture us and preserve whatever we’ve got.”

  “Don’t hang your hat on that one, Penny,” said Rat from the back of the van. “I wouldn’t waste ammunition on us either, if I were them, even if I had enough to conduct a small campaign. You’re over-thinking this. They probably just want to talk. Why don’t you see if you can parlay with these jokers? Either way, it sure beats the hell out of all this intense speculation.”

  “Good point.”

  Miller got up slowly. She went back into the darkness to one of the empty seats, looked around and picked up Charlie’s silver .357. It was empty, and all the reloads were gone, but showing it might do them some good. She tucked it into her belt and went over to the doors.

  “Open her up, Scratch.”

  “Oh, no.” He turned his head to look. “You’re not going out there alone.”

  Miller deadpanned. “Who says I’m going out alone? You’re coming with me.” It wasn’t a request. “Get up slowly.”

  Scratch rose from his seat slowly and carefully, with his hands in sight. He spoke to the rear of the van. “Any of you soldiery types got a fighting knife?”

  Rolf shuffled around in the darkness. They heard a soft whine and the pad of little paws. Rolf sent Dudley forward with a large bowie knife clipped to his collar. The German shepherd brought it obediently, and drooled on the floor. By then Scratch was next to Miller, standing by the doors.

  “Thanks, Rolf.” Scratch took the knife and hooked it on his belt. Then he raised his head to listen. “Hey, do you hear that?”

  “It’s dying down.” Miller opened the doors just a crack and carefully stuck her head out into the night. She looked around. “There’s a lot fewer of them now. Some must have pulled back.”

  “Good news. Now let’s go find out why.” Scratch pulled the lever that opened the door the rest of the way. Then he jumped down and stepped out into the darkness with the knife on his belt and his hands up. No one shot at him.

  “Guys,” Miller said, “sneak to the windows and man the door. If you see me draw the .357, target anything that could be a threat and open up. Otherwise hold your fire. Copy that?”

  “Roger, Penny,” said Sheppard. She could hear him loading a round into the chamber of his M-4. The others did the same. The rattling sound stopped just as quickly as it began. The van shifted in place as everyone took their positions behind her. Miller watched Scratch and studied his body language. He managed to look confident and submissive at the same time, and the saw-toothed blade at his belt spoke volumes. She took a deep breath and released it.

  “Come on,” Scratch said. “We ain’t got all night.”

  Miller stepped out of the van and down onto the road. She moved slowly, turned, and pushed the van doors together, but not all the way. She left room for the others to take positions and aim.

  The stars overhead bore witness, along with a remorseless moon. The circling stopped and the riders went to assigned places. They gunned their engines. Though the motorcycles were keeping their distance, the sound of their tailpipes out in the open was stunningly loud. If Miller hadn’t been prepared for it, it would have been pretty damn intimidating. The air reeked of gasoline, sweat, exhaust, and smoke from the bonfire. Several of the riders were pointing their headlights directly at Scratch and Miller. Others were gunning their engines and watching the van. Now just three were steadily circling close to Miller and Scratch. It was all perfectly choreographed.

  Scratch crossed his arms and stared straight ahead, a statue with a knife at its belt. He just stopped moving and stood there, waiting. Miller decided to follow his lead. She also took a tough but somewhat defensive posture and stared back at the gang. They stayed like that for perhaps a full minute. The gang kept the routine going. Perhaps they were waiting for further instructions. Some of them looked confused.

  Scratch turned to Miller. “I don’t know about you, but I’m getting bored.” He put his arms down to his side, and now watched the circling motorcycles. “Let’s have some fun. Get ready to follow me.”

  Miller opened her mouth to speak, but decided this was his world and she’d bow to his expertise. Scratch studied the pattern surrounding them. After about ten more seconds, they both spotted a gap in the circling motorcycles. Scratch startled everyone by lunging forward into the open space. He dodged through it, his arms pumping. Despite his heads up, Miller wasn’t quite ready for the move. Now she stood alone. One of the men let out a rebel yell and another answered. The motorcycles continued to circle, tighter and tighter now, and soon all the riders were whooping and hollering. Catching on, Miller watched, timing their turns and patterns, and then dodged right behind the biggest of the bikers. Miller also made it into the open, but just barely.

  Scratch was waiting for her.

  “What the fuck was all that about?” Miller gasped.

  “They’re just fucking with us,” replied Scratch. He grinned. “Hey, douche bag,” he called to the nearest biker, a bulky man with his blond hair tied up in a ponytail. “Whenever you clowns are done playing with each other’s dicks, how about you tell your old man we want to parlay?”

  Expressionless, the biker turned and waved his arm to someone behind him. Miller and Scratch watched. They saw headlights in the distance, above and to their right, a couple of bikes that had remained separate from the pack on a low rise. Engines were gunned again. They started forward, lights blazing, and came towards the van. They took their own sweet time.

  “See,” said Scratch, “the boss man was right where I said he would be.”

  “Don’t hurt your shoulder by patting yourself on the back, Scratch,” Miller said. “That’s why I wanted you along. Keep your eyes open.”

  The people from the hill arrived. There were three of them, one man being flanked by two others who stayed a couple of feet behind. Miller took their measure. The one in the center was tall and muscular, perhaps a bit gone to seed, but still intimidating. In a lot of ways, despite being heavier set, he resembled Scratch when Miller had first encountered him. Long hair, tattoos, a preference for sleeveless denim vests, and a bad, bad boy attitude. The other men stayed back in deference. The big man rolled forward. If he wasn’t their leader, then Miller was losing her touch.

  Miller looked over at Scratch, standing there in the headlights. The only thing that indicated that he had ever been the leader of the Blood Riders was his attitude. He was wearing a white t-shirt, jeans, military-style boots, and a light jacket with epaulets. His tattoos could be seen on his neck in spots, but his arms were covered. And of course, his hair was still much shorter because he had it cut in Malibu a week or so before. He looked tough enough, but more like a Navy SEAL on leave than the former leader of a band of killers. Maybe that would work to their advantage.

  The big man in the middle dismounted his motorcycle, flanked by his two cronies, one on each side. He waved his arms. All the motorcycles gunned their engines in one gigantic, throaty roar, and then turned them off. The night fell silent at last, except for the vague chirping of crickets in the distance. The men sat at attention on their bikes, and everyone waited for what was to come.

  The headlights were still shining directly on Miller and Scratch. The big man took a few steps closer. He looked them up and down. Then he started to laugh.

  “I don’t know how bad your day was, citizens, but I can flat guarantee you that your night just went to shit.”

  Scratch didn’t even blink. “Coyote, you whiny little puppy, you’ve been a bad boy. Jesus on a jet ski, I’d have thought your mommy w
ould have read you a story and tucked you into bed by now.”

  Coyote almost took a step backwards but caught himself and glared. He snapped his fingers. His two lieutenants stepped forward, and placed their hands on unseen weapons. The move was subtle, but clear.

  “The fuck you know my name, Roger Ramjet?”

  “I don’t know,” Scratch deadpanned. “I just kinda took a sniff, and I said to myself, that asshole smells sort of like coyote shit, and then there you were. Maybe you could smell yourself if you weren’t all wired up on kitchen sink crank.”

  “Kill him,” said Coyote. He yawned and stretched to emphasize his indifference. “Make it slow.”

  The two cronies reached for their weapons.

  Miller glanced over at Scratch. “Nice work, genius.” She sighed and reached behind her for the .357. Maybe a bluff would work.

  Scratch put his hand on Miller’s arm. “Hold up there, cowgirl. I promise you no one’s going to die tonight.”

  Miller relaxed, and he took his hand away. He grinned like the Scratch she’d first fallen in love with. Miller ached to be with him one last time. She also knew she’d never again be able to tell him she felt that way.

  Scratch turned to the crony on the right.

  “Hey, Dino.” He said it with a long ‘i’ sound, like dinosaur. Miller could only guess if that was what it was short for, or how he’d gotten the name. “I thought the Army shot your ass up after Ragnarok took over.”

  “That they did.” Then Dino squinted and a wide grin appeared. “No way,” he said. “Scratch? I thought you were dead, brother.”

  “This ain’t the first time I’ve come back from the dead, Dino, you know that. I’ve got more lives than a tomcat on blow.”

  “Who is this motherfucker?” Coyote demanded.

  “This is the leader of my old tribe, the Blood Riders,” Dino said. “He got his pussy shaved. Come on, you know Scratch, don’t you?”

  “Scratch?” Coyote said. “Well, son of a bitch, is that you?”

  “Hey, Coyote, how’s it hanging?”

  Coyote smiled, but with considerably less enthusiasm. “Damn, it’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

  “Not long enough,” Scratch said, dryly. “It’s good to see you.”

  “Where’s your bitch, the bro called Needles?”

  Scratch’s face tightened. “Zombies ate him. And he wasn’t my bitch, he was my lieutenant. I always planned to make you my bitch, Coyote. We’ve still got time.”

  Some of the men chuckled. Coyote looked around, but in the darkness he probably couldn’t see who had dared to enjoy the joke.

  “You know, Scratch,” Coyote said, casually, “the last time I saw you, you were riding off into the sunset with my woman.” His odd smile ominously disappeared. “I should kill you for that alone.”

  “You’re welcome to give that a try.”

  “And this time I can take your woman there, and make her pull a train.”

  Miller cocked her head. “You can try.”

  Some of the men laughed again.

  Scratch shrugged. “Look, Coyote, we can dance if you want. This just doesn’t seem like a smart way to do things.”

  Coyote held his anger in check. He frowned and thought for a minute. “What the hell have you got that we can’t just take from you?”

  “Information,” Scratch said. “We’ve been to the edge and back, and we know a few things about what’s going on in Nevada that you probably don’t. Like where the Army stockpiled a shitload of weapons and supplies. “

  Miller chimed in. “Or which casinos from Reno to West Wendover still have cash in them.”

  Coyote addressed Scratch. “Tell your bitch to pipe down.”

  Miller sneered. She flipped him the bird.

  Scratch waved her off. He took another step towards Coyote. The glare washed out his face and made him look kind of like an albino zombie. “We know which towns still have women in them, too. Think about it, Coyote. I’m talking guns, money and pussy. This is the end of the world, so there’s not a cop in sight. Shit, you could have it all, my man.”

  Scratch took another, tentative, almost conspiratorial step toward Coyote. Miller looked at him, reading his body. His hand was near his side—not far from the handle of Rolf’s fighting knife. She hoped that the others in the van realized what he was doing, as well, because she couldn’t afford to signal the van. If she did, she risked getting spotted by one of Coyote’s men and getting them both gunned down. Rat would probably figure it out. Still, this was a very dangerous game Scratch was playing. Miller licked her dry lips. She decided to distract the gang.

  “You want to try and make me pipe down, Coyote?” Miller said. “I’m right here.”

  Coyote smiled. He nodded to Miller, is if acknowledging her for the first time. “Who’s the bitch, Scratch, your replacement for Needles?”

  Scratch didn’t look at Miller. “Her? She ain’t nobody. Just a piece of tail I rescued from the zoms a ways back. She does what I tell her. Don’t you, little Penny?” He turned to wink at her. Miller rolled her eyes.

  “Don’t believe him on that one, Coyote,” said Dino. “I remember her now. She’s like the local sheriff down in Flat Rock. The last time I seen her, she was wearing a wedding dress, and Scratch was fighting Ragnarok over her. Shit, that’s when the Army came in and wiped out the entire crew. There’s something special about her. I saw her kick the asses off a whole squad of weekend warriors. Those soldiers had to trank her just to get her to get into their helicopter.”

  Coyote looked Miller over. “You’re shitting me, right?”

  “Nope,” Dino grinned. “She’s badassed!”

  Miller wished she had a loaded gun instead of a silver plated bluff, because she would have killed that guy Dino before he had a chance to finish the speech. But it was way too late now. Scratch’s angle had just gone up in smoke.

  Coyote backed up a few steps. His cronies got closer to him, protecting him. “What is this, some kind of setup? You were gonna have your ninja girlfriend sneak over here and try to kick my ass? That’s never gonna happen, Scratch. The Demons of Death ain’t that stupid.” He turned to his men. “Waste them.”

  Miller was an instant from pulling the .357 from her waistband and signaling Rat and Sheppard to open up, but she stopped when she saw something else in the distance. She knew enough not to be too hopeful, but it sure was still a beautiful sight. She raised her right hand up to signal restraint. Dino saw her staring and turned his head. He spoke first, voice filled with shock and trepidation.

  “The fuck?”

  And now they all turned to look up on the highway, where four sets of red and blue flashing lights appeared. Someone was coming post haste. Whoever it was sure closed the distance in a hurry. It was the state police or maybe some military cops, and the vehicles were moving like bobcats with their butts on fire.

  Miller spoke to Scratch. “The far side of the van.”

  “You sure?”

  “Go!” Miller turned and ran.

  Scratch got the message, took off too, and caught up in a hurry. He was right behind her when the first shot rang out. Someone from the Demons had panicked. For a brief moment, Miller wished they’d both had ballistics vests for some kind of body cover, but it was much too late to ask heaven for one of those. They’d have to stay flat and wait it out. She dodged around the back of the van. She shouted to her friends inside.

  “Incoming, get down and stay down!”

  The motorcycles started up again. Someone else fired at the approaching police cars. Miller heard thumping sounds as Sheppard, Rat, Brandon, and Rolf crashed down onto the floor of the van to take cover. A stray bullet went right through the van and came out over Miller’s head with a metallic popping sound. Miller and Scratch stayed flat on the ground with their hands over their heads.

  Miller prayed that the police would be there soon. She desperately wanted to have her people in the van open up on these bikers, at least to make them kee
p their heads down, but they had to be the good guys. Firing out from the van wouldn’t go over very well with the police. If they made it through the firefight, depending on the state of the world in Idaho, they could be looking at the inside of a prison, and after the hell that her people had been through she just couldn’t take that kind of risk. They would all have to act helpless and wait it out.

  Someone on the Demons’ side of things, perhaps Coyote, made a wise decision. They didn’t circle the van as Miller would have expected. Nor did they set themselves for a pitched battle with the cops, as she’d feared. Instead, they assembled rapidly, engines roaring, and took off into the night like one living organism. The whole gang took an unseen side road and went up through the rocks heading west.

  Miller breathed a sigh of relief.

  The police arrived just as the last of the bikes vanished into the night, but only two of the cars split off and roared away in pursuit of the Demons. The other two flanked the parked vehicle, headlights focused right on it, and the cops got out and trained their weapons on the van. A siren whooped twice. A man’s voice called out.

  “Drop your weapons and come out with your hands where we can see them. This is the only warning you’re going to get.”

  Miller patted on the side of the van. She hoped that the others inside got the message not to shoot. They would just have to surrender. She got to her feet and signaled for Scratch to follow her. He rose as well.

  “Hold your fire, officers,” Miller called. “There are two of us behind the van and four more inside. We’re coming out.”

  Scratch hesitated. “Are you sure this is a good idea, Penny?”

  “It’s our only play.” Miller came around the front of the van with her hands over her head. She looked to see Rat, Sheppard, Rolf, and Brandon exiting the van, also unarmed and with their hands up. Little Dudley trotted alongside Rolf. He seemed happy to see the police. Miller sure hoped the dog was right.

  “Get down on your knees, and interlace your fingers on top of your head.”