"Scratch," she said, using the prisoner's gang name, "don't make me regret this." Miller unbuckled her gun belt and handed it over to Scratch. Disgusted, Wells turned away and spat on the floor.
"Thank you, Sheriff. That's mighty decent of you." Scratch buckled the belt around his hips like an old-style gunslinger. He quietly drew the handgun. Expertly, Scratch pulled the slide halfway back to make certain it was loaded. In one smooth movement, he raised the pistol and fired. Wells' face collapsed into itself. His thick neck gushed; the lifeless body dropped heavily to the floor.
Instantly, Miller and Scratch both raised their weapons. They aimed at each other. Mexican standoff. The mob of creatures outside kept trying to push and shove their way into the jail.
"Drop it," said Miller from the other end of her rifle. She was stunned to see her hands were still not trembling. They stared at one another in silence. On the floor, what was left of Wells farted noisily.
"Sorry, Sheriff," said Scratch. He grinned. "That prick has been looking for a way to get shot since he cracked my skull. I was just, you know, helping him out."
"You're still my prisoner, Scratch. Put down your weapon!"
"What, so you can lock me in that cell again to get eaten alive by them things?" He gestured toward the door behind her. "You saw what that son of a bitch did to Needles a minute ago. He flat out had that coming. Like you said, we got to work together. Now come on, they'll be on us again soon enough."
Miller applied a small amount of pressure to the trigger. The Remington seemed to vibrate. She was about to fire when she saw a hulking creature appear behind Scratch. Miller rapidly shifted her aim and shot the tall zombie just before it bit down on Scratch's neck. It flew backwards.
Scratch's gun discharged. His shot was a half second behind hers. Miller found herself spinning; a pain in her left shoulder that bordered on unbearable. She went down hard, hitting the tiles. Her small body slid through slimy gore and entrails. She ended up several feet away, face down. She passed out.
Miller woke up to a buzzing sound. Her right eye wouldn't open; it was crusted shut and covered with blood. Her left shoulder hurt like blazes. Someone was talking to her, but she couldn't understand—the shooting had damaged her ears. She could feel pressure on her shoulder. She looked up to see Scratch kneeling over her.
"You awake, Sheriff?" she heard Scratch saying from a distance. "You're one tough bitch, I'll tell you that."
"What happened?" she managed. Her voice sounded far away.
"We made it," he announced. "I shored up the hole in the wall with some of the lumber, pumped a few rounds into some of those miserable freaks, and then they just kinda went away. Thought you died a couple of times, but sure as shit, you made it."
He finished tying the bandage around her arm, stood, and picked up a shotgun.
"Now here's the way this is going to work. I'm gonna get you outside, into your truck, and put the keys in your hand. Then I'm gonna hop on my ride and get the ever-lovin' fuck out of here. After that, you're on your own. Deal?"
"You killed Wells," she protested, without much conviction.
"Come on, Sheriff. Let's let bygones be bygones. He had it coming and you know it. Besides, what are you gonna do, arrest me?" He held the shotgun casually, and smiled.
"I saved your life."
"Yes you did, much obliged. So now I'm gonna save yours, and we'll be even." He hefted her off the floor. "God, you are a sight, Sheriff. If I didn't know better, I'd think you was one of them zombies." Scratch slung a shotgun over his shoulder and carried her past the decomposing bodies. They went out the back door.
The dead lay everywhere. Wells had a hell of an aim, that was sure, because hardly one had its head anymore. The stench was unbearable, but Miller was too weak to vomit.
It was early morning outside. The first hint of the sun peaked out over pines to the east, bringing a bone-chilling wind. She felt cold, colder than she'd ever been before. It was the loss of blood—she knew it, but she couldn't do much of anything about it. Miller shivered.
Scratch opened the door to her cruiser, a worn brown-and-white Ford Blazer, and shoved Miller inside. He got her feet and hands situated on the pedals and wheel, took the keys from her gun belt. He inserted them into the ignition, started it up.
"There, I done what I promised. Good luck, and thanks for saving my ass."
"Scratch," she began, "I could die without your help."
"Oh, quit bitchin', Sheriff."
He closed the door with a slam, strolled over to his impounded Harley. Her ears were still ringing. She watched Scratch through the windshield as he stepped on the starter, saw him gun the engine and shake a bit when it roared into life. A hulking zombie came out of nowhere. It jumped up behind Scratch, kind of like it was going for a joy ride, and then chomped down on his jacket shoulder. Scratch's eyes popped open, all funny and wide. The motorcycle went over sideways, taking Scratch and the huge zombie with it. His boots kicked and disappeared from view. The motor kept roaring. If he screamed, Miller didn't hear it.
Seconds later the zombie reappeared. It looked up at her, smiling with yellow, broken teeth. It rose up, lumbered her way. Miller had a moment of clarity. Her adrenaline kicked in. She let her hand fall on the gearshift, slammed it into drive. The Blazer surged forward. The zombie didn't flinch. It went THUMP THUMP as she drove clean over it.
Swerving like a drunken teen on prom night, she made her way roughly out onto the open highway. Sheriff Miller didn't know what she would find out there in what was left of the world, but she knew that she had a job to do.
And no fucking zombies were gonna stand in her way.
THREE
The streets were devoid of human beings, but filled with cars parked at odd angles, some of them still running. Two stray dogs circled in an alley as they fought over something red and dripping. The sidewalks were littered with boxes of groceries and suitcases burst open. It appeared people had been ambushed by neighbors while racing to pack up their cars. Blood trails led nowhere, as newly created zombies who'd gotten to their feet stumbled around looking for someone uninfected to chomp down on. Sheriff Miller ran every red light. She banged the hell out of her fenders as she raced into town. Cursing, she drove the cruiser over the curb and, without slowing, slammed into the tree that stood outside the house that used to be hers.
Tears filled her eyes. Their quiet little neighborhood looked like New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. Miller jumped when the old oak unloaded a barrage of acorns onto the roof of the Blazer, the sound much like the gunfire of the night before. Her ears were still ringing. She looked through the crushed windshield, across the warped hood of the smashed up Blazer. Her gaze drifted through the pale smoke rising from the cracked radiator. The house looked still and quiet. No broken windows. The dump two doors down on the north side was ablaze, but the flames hadn't spread. The wind was blowing away from her house. Miller allowed herself to wonder about her ex-husband Terrill Lee's safety. If he was okay. Could she shoot him if he was now one of… them? Upon reflection, Miller figured yeah, she could.
Miller reached for her seatbelt and winced. She felt her shoulder wound start to bleed again. She pressed her hand over the wound. A wave of dizziness passed over her. She wondered if she had enough energy left to face what would come next. Hell, even to push the door open and get her sorry ass out. She checked herself in the rear view mirror. Her face was filthy. Her eyes looked wild and bloodshot. The beige uniform was half shredded and her hands grimy and covered with dried gore. Makeup wouldn't have done much good. Another wave of nausea made her bend over the steering wheel.
SNICK. Miller heard the rude, unmistakable sound of a shotgun being racked very close to her head.
"If you ain't dead yet, you're about to be."
Squinting, she slowly turned her head toward the sound. Miller could barely see through all the smoke, but she recognized the voice. Terrill Lee was alive. Miller breathed a sigh of relief. If she didn't get her hea
d blown off in the next few seconds, she had a shot at staying safe.
"Terrill Lee," she whispered. "It's me. I need your help." Her voice was so scratchy and weak she wondered if he could hear her at all.
"Penny?" A figure emerged from the smoke. He approached the door of the Blazer. So tall, thin, skin a bit pasty, but to Miller still handsome all the same. The prick. Terrill Lee got close enough to see through the smudged window. He kept the shotgun leveled at her head.
"Warm shit on a shingle," he said quietly. "Are you… are you still alive?"
"At this particular instant, kinda wish I weren't." Miller coughed. Fresh pain seared through her shoulder into her lungs. Agony spread throughout her body. The bitter taste of blood rose in the back of her throat. "If you keep standing there with your thumb up your ass, I might just get my wish."
Terrill Lee lowered the shotgun. "What happened, Penny? What the hell is going on out there?"
"Can we talk about this inside? I'm in a moderate level of distress at the moment. I could use a little help, if you can stand to be around me again just long enough to patch me up."
He tugged at the door handle, and it opened with an angry screech. Miller watched with an almost disinterested air as her ex unbuckled the seatbelt and lifted her from the shattered vehicle. She drifted in and out of consciousness. Overhead, the branches and leaves of the big live oak swirled and spun. Somewhere above the fires and the smoke the sun was still shining. Carefully, Terrill Lee carried Miller into their old house. Miller could barely keep her eyes open. She did notice that he hadn't kept up the lawn. Hell, Terrill Lee had the blackest thumb in three counties. But their old house looked freshly painted. He wasn't a total dirt bag.
As they moved through the front door, Terrill Lee now huffing and puffing a little more than he had on their honeymoon, Miller noticed new furniture in the front room. Her favorite stuff was gone. The room was now a masculine space filled with dark leather with some big, fake boobed and entirely tasteless semi-nude paintings on the wall. Miller wanted to laugh at Terrill Lee's middle-aged attempt to reinvent himself, but instead spat a wad of bloody phlegm on Terrill Lee's white coat. His face showed concern. Still pissed, Miller passed out.
A few moments later, she woke to find herself lying on something incredibly soft. Miller carefully rolled her head from side to side. She was in their old bedroom. There was a blank spot on the wall where their wedding portrait used to hang, a large square one shade lighter than the rest of the flocked wallpaper. Saddened, Miller continued to stare at that spot as if it were a window into a better time. Meanwhile Terrill Lee examined her battered body. He removed the bloody makeshift bandage. Penny Miller felt warm wetness drool down her side and onto the bedspread.
"We have to stop this bleeding," Terrill Lee muttered. He pulled the case off of a pillow, wadded it up and pressed it against the wound. "Hold this here, Penny. I'm going to get my gear. I'll be right back to stitch this up, you hear?"
Miller did as she was told. She coughed again and pain seared through her chest. This can't be good, she thought. Feels like I'm all messed up inside.
A few moments later, Terrill Lee reappeared, clutching the large, old-fashioned black medical bag he carried with him to nearby ranches and farms. He squatted next to her. With a pair of surgical scissors, he cut her uniform shirt away, exposing a wound and a large portion of her left breast.
"No peeking," she said, smiling weakly.
Terrill Lee actually laughed. That was a sound she hadn't heard in a long time. "I'll be honest with you, girl. Having your boobs ogled by your ex-husband is the least of our problems right now." He cut the rest of her filthy shirt away, poured disinfectant onto a ball of cotton, and cleaned the skin around her wound. Terrill Lee grabbed the scissors again. He skillfully cut away her torn uniform trousers. Miller wondered why she'd left. Had he always been this handsome?
"Don't move."
He cut away the rest of her uniform. She didn't have the strength to argue. If it made it easier for Terrill Lee to keep her alive when she was naked as a baby, then that would have to do. Miller winced as he pulled the clothing away. Terrill Lee removed the compress. He used a small squirt bottle to irrigate the wound. "A bite I can relate to, but you want to tell me how you managed to get shot?"
"Later." She sighed. "Let's just say I've had a really bad night."
"You and everyone else from here to Elko and beyond, from all I can gather." He continued to work, quickly and efficiently. He was a medical man, used to fixing what was broke. Male or female, human or animal, that didn't much matter. He'd always been good at his job, just not much of a husband.
"So do you know what's going on?" she asked.
Terrill Lee laughed again, but this time in a minor key. "You could say that." He rolled her over onto her right side, and began working on her back. "It seems we're lucky. This is a through and through wound. Exit is just above your scapula. Probably grazed a rib, but apart from tearing you up pretty bad, we have good reason to believe you're going to be all right."
It hurt. "Fuck me," she said, almost inaudibly.
"You wish." Terrill Lee stood up. He towered over her nakedness. "Too bad you couldn't have said that more often before we got divorced."
That was more than Miller was willing to take. She summoned all her strength. "Terrill Lee, you circus geek, dense-as-a-pinecone motherfucker, I do not wish to have that conversation with you again, and especially at this particular instant. Hells bells, doesn't your Hypocrite's oath prevent you from antagonizing your patients?"
"You ain't a calf that's been hit by a car, Penny. My type of Hippocratic oath doesn't apply to humans." He glared at her. "But if you think it will make you feel any better, you can have a dog biscuit and a brushing once we've gotten your sorry ass squared away."
"Just fix me up, you smug bastard." Miller tried to sit up. She longed to stare him in the eye, but didn't get but an inch off the mattress.
"Whoa, there, cowgirl! You aren't going anywhere just yet." He shoved her gently back onto the bed. "Now stay still." He spread a blanket over her goose-bumped flesh. The warmth felt good. She closed her eyes. Miller lay still, just thinking. What was happening to folks out there? How the hell had this started? She really didn't have the energy to fight any more. She opened her eyes again and stared at the ceiling.
"Ouch!" Something pinched her arm, a sharp sting. Miller tried to pull away but it was over before she could flinch.
"There you go," Terrill Lee said. "That'll help you relax and ease the pain a tad. Now I'm going to stitch you up. All you have to do now is just lie there and try not to bleed to death."
"I see your bedside manner has greatly improved," Miller heard herself saying. The dope was topnotch. The ceiling turned in a lazy circle. She found herself sinking into an abyss, fading to black right there on their old marital bed.
… Miller was back in the station, a rifle in her hands. Zombies surrounded her on all sides. But now instead of Wells manning the shotgun on the other side of the station, it was Terrill Lee. She turned to watch as he systematically took the heads off of three successive zombies. He turned and shouted, but Miller couldn't make out what he was saying. He turned the gun on her, aimed, and fired. She could see the scattershot racing towards her, always approaching in slow motion, but never arriving. Out of the corner of her eye, Scratch appeared, a zombie now with a hideous countenance and wild eyes. He was holding her pistol. He turned it on Terrill Lee. Scratch shot her ex-husband in the forehead. Unlike the shell fired at her, this one met its mark. Terrill Lee's head vaporized in a volcanic eruption of dark blood and brains. Scratch dropped the weapon, turned to her. Miller raised her .30-06, but it wasn't in her hands anymore. Scratch was bloody, his eyes blank and white, his skin and clothes torn and ragged. The stench was nauseating. Miller wanted nothing more than to empty her stomach. He moved in for the kill. As Scratch approached, the urge to retch overpowered Miller. She had no will to run. He touched her with one decaying f
inger. It was done. She watched as her own skin began to slough off, maggots crawling from open sores. She could feel the bile well up in her mouth and she…
And then Miller was leaning over the side of the bed, vomiting all over Terrill Lee's worn work boots. She knew there wasn't much in her stomach to begin with. She hadn't had a meal since before the zombies came, but that didn't seem to curb a newfound enthusiasm for voiding her insides.
"That's just great!" Terrill Lee said, dryly. Miller continued to retch. "You could try to warn a man."
Miller shivered under the blankets. She hugged herself. He'd dressed her and she was now wearing an old Dallas Cowboys T-shirt. It seemed to cover her enough to satisfy what was left of her modesty. What the hell difference does it make? It ain't like he's never seen my honey pot before.
Miller motioned for water to rinse out her mouth. Terrill got some towels from the bathroom and a small cup of tap water. He let her sip a bit and went about cleaning up the mess she'd made. The stench was ripe. Miller swallowed and sighed. She looked out the window. It was still morning, but which day?
"How long was I out?"
"Only about an hour," Terrill Lee said. He gathered up the mess and headed for the laundry room. She heard the washer start up promptly so the power was still running. At least they would have lights come dark. Thank God for his tender mercies.
Terrill Lee slammed a door. He came back into the room with a spray bottle and some more rags. He scrubbed the floorboards. "I had just come in to check on you when you decided to give me this little gift."
"What did I miss?"
"There was an old man…" Terrill Lee paused. He seemed almost embarrassed. "Well, I might as well say it, a zombie. He came down the street, kind of half looked in the window. You weren't moving, so he ignored the house and kept on going down to the highway. Look, whatever is going on outside, it ain't over."
"Where are the neighbors?" asked Miller.
"I haven't seen a soul—er, a living soul—since last night. This morning I went from house to house, checking to see if anyone was home, you know, to offer medical assistance, but no one answered or opened their doors. I reckon they're either all gone or dead. Living dead, I suppose. Something like that."
The Hungry Page 4