Miller turned to see Darla hovering over Scratch. Miller surely didn't care for the idea that Scratch might never wake up. She had worked too hard to keep him alive. She knelt next to him. Miller prodded again. Slapped him hard.
"Scratch," she said. "Get off your lazy ass. We got some real problems. I can't have you playing possum in the middle of all this." Miller reached down and pinched the back of his arm.
Scratch pulled gently away from the pinch like a man in a drunken stupor. He tried to roll over onto one side. He snored.
"Holy fuck," cried Darla. She noisily backed into a corner, clutching her bandaged wrist. "Is he alive or coming back? He ain't gonna turn into one of those God-damned things, is he?"
Miller considered that for a terrified second. Then she almost shrieked. "Scratch ain't turning into a zombie. He don't have my permission to die. Now shut the fuck up and make yourself useful. Go gather up all the weapons and ammo from these dead soldiers, and bring 'em over here by me. Can you handle that much?"
"I…" Darla stammered.
Miller turned to look. Saw movement behind her. "Terrill Lee, help her out. I want weapons and ammo. And while you're at it, bring me the biggest-assed pistol you can find."
Something in her commanding tone and the reference to earlier that morning, back at their house, seemed to slap Terrill Lee across the face. "You got it, Dirty Harriet." He managed a weak smile. Miller decided to return it for old time's sake. Let's let him think I still have some respect for his sorry ass. That ought to get him pointed downrange for a while... An angry woman in a filthy wedding dress ordering everyone around. What had the world come to now?
Miller turned her attention to Scratch. She slapped him again, just enough to get his attention. His weathered face wrinkled up like a baby's, which was kind of cute in a beat up, tattooed, scraggly sort of way. He came back to planet earth.
"The fuck?" Scratch whispered. He reached up to rub his head. The bandage that Miller had slapped on him days ago came loose. The scalp wound scab had cracked and a rivulet of blood ran down from his forehead and into the stubble on his dirty right cheek. Scratch woke up. His eyes came back into focus. He looked her up and down.
"Damned if you ain't a sight, Sheriff." He took in the blood-splattered dress. "Guess you ain't planning on another white wedding. It is kind of purty, though."
"What, this old thing?" Miller grinned. "I only wear this when I'm out hunting me some zombies."
She grabbed Scratch under the right shoulder, hauled him up into a sitting position. "Come on, I need you awake. We gotta get organized and get out of here."
"Where's Roger Ramjet?"
"If you mean the sergeant, he's the dude over there that's missing a head. No, that one over there on his back." A girl had to narrow it down these days. "Now, if you meant the corporal, he's outside with the surviving Guardsmen doing some recon. Speaking of Corporal Wells, where the fuck is he, anyway?"
Miller craned her neck to look out the back of the vehicle. Terrill Lee was stacking weapons and ammo in a pile near her feet. She had to peer past his shoulder. Miller heard a vehicle drive up, just outside their overturned truck. One of those old EconoLine vans, white, with some body damage. Suddenly Fulton and Macumber exited the van, weapons up and eyes wide, like they were making a night drop over Normandy on D-Day. Corporal Wells left the engine running as he leapt out of the driver's door. He was waving them over.
"We found some transportation," shouted Wells. "It's big enough for all seven of us." Wells peered into the dark truck. His eyes focused on Scratch, who had gotten to his feet. "I see your sidekick decided to join us, Sheriff."
Wells stepped into the truck. The soldiers handed out the remaining weapons including those that Darla had gathered. "We'd best haul ass," Wells said, finally. "We're low on gas, and I don't want to get stuck way out here."
"Where are we?" asked Miller. Scratch had gotten to his feet. He seemed to be shaking things off. Tough bastard…
"We're about ten or twenty miles east of Flat Rock. I reckon we got about that much gas, maybe a little more. Not enough to get where we're going. I say we get over there just to tank up, and then haul ass back to my base."
"Are you sure that's such a hot idea?" Miller asked. "Your bosses had me worried. I'm not excited about becoming some kind of a glorified lab rat."
"I understand, but we'll be safe there," Wells said, not without sympathy. "I'll tell them what happened. I'll have your back. Besides, we have to reconnect with command. The sergeant's radio is shot to hell, and he's the one who knew the whole plan. We could end up stranded without ammunition, support or supplies. Our last order was to return to base, so that's what we're going to do."
"I take it your base is more than twenty miles out," said Miller.
Wells hesitated. "That's… you know…"
"No, I don't."
"It's classified, Sheriff. Let's just say that it's a bit of a run from here. It's closer to Elko than here, though not by much."
"Going back that way means more zombies," she said.
"Yeah," said Wells. "But hell, what doesn't? Come on, let's rock."
Terrill Lee, who had been waiting patiently like the dork she thought he was, finally stepped forward. "We found this, Penny," he said. He handed her a pistol belt. "It was the biggest one in the truck."
Miller drew the pistol from its holster. It was a massive Browning High-Power 9mm parabellum. "Hell, yes. Now that's what I'm talking about—a gun with some testicles. Got any ammo?"
"On the belt," said Terrill Lee. He actually seemed proud of himself for having made her happy. Like after when he'd given her a really great foot rub in the old days. It was kind of endearing.
Miller returned the pistol to its holster. She strapped the gun belt around her waist. A girly feeling passed over her. Please, no cameras. This was getting steadily worse. Miller didn't want to imagine what she looked like now—some bride from hell in a lacy, ripped up, blood-spattered wedding dress wearing a military pistol belt and boots. No sir, she did not want a picture of that. Miller looked out into the bright sunlight. Something else occurred to her.
"Terrill Lee, hand me them sunglasses."
He reached down on the bottom of the truck and picked up a pair of mirrored Ray-Ban aviators, recently the property of one of the massacred privates. They were almost unharmed, though the temples seemed a little bent. Miller put them on. She immediately felt better, kind of like they disguised something important by hiding her eyes. Fuck everything else, the shades made it all seem cool. She straightened her shoulders. Hefted the pistol.
"That really completes the outfit, honey."
Miller turned. Scratch was grinning at her. Since when does he call me honey? Terrill Lee did not look at all pleased. Here we go again.
"We done with the fucking fashion show now, Sheriff?" Scratch asked, mildly. "If so, I'd say we need to get outta here."
"You're right. Let's go."
They all piled out of the big truck and got into the EconoLine van. Darla immediately sought the farthest corner and hid in the deepest shadow. She sat rocking and humming. Terrill Lee scowled like a jealous boyfriend as he cleaned his weapons. Wells got into the driver's seat. Miller rode shotgun for real with the Mossberg 500 pump-action 12-gauge that Fulton had handed her as she entered the vehicle.
"That really goes with the dress," Wells said. They exchanged smiles.
Wells yanked it into gear and they sped away. As they drove on, the soldiers pondered their situation in silence, without bravado and cracking no jokes. Wells took it easy on the speed, clearly conserving fuel. They headed back toward Flat Rock. Miller watched through the dusty windows. They passed a farm or two and made the outskirts of town. The world seemed ruined. Cars lay abandoned along the roadside, and as they passed more and more scenes of bloody carnage the stench of rotting corpses filled the van. Darla, still sitting at the far back, took this opportunity to vomit again. Miller looked back at her. She seemed to have tiptoed o
ff a cliff into madness.
The drive passed without incident, but it took them the better part of a half hour before they spotted a healthy looking Gas-and-Sip on the outskirts of town. Wells stopped a couple of hundred yards away, with one hand on the wheel. The van vibrated. They studied the scene. The building was splintering and weather-pounded, the once garish colors faded out. The window glass was spider-webbed with cracks. A few abandoned cars sat parked at odd angles, hoods up, with one or more doors yawning open, as if the owners had fled or been dragged away. Blood smeared the sidewalk outside the cashier's window. The pumps seemed okay. Miller checked, and their own gas was hovering at the E. Wells finally turned to look back at her.
"What do you think, Sheriff?"
"I figure it's a gamble," said Miller, "but we don't have a choice. We go for it. Only question is how to go in."
"We could split up, come at it in groups like it was a gun position."
"I hear you, but that would cost us time, and make us far more vulnerable if there's a shitload of undead hiding in that there garage or somewhere. I say we just drive up, gas up and stay as ready for trouble as a honeymoon pecker."
Wells said, "You're on. Let's just hope there's power and that those pumps are still working."
"Your mouth to God's ears."
They rolled forward through debris and broken glass. The air in the van got thick with tension. Miller could hear the tires crunching. They pulled up alongside one of the pumps. Wells seemed to have ceded authority, so Miller gave the orders. "Macumber, you and Fulton go get the pump running," she barked. Fulton was a young woman in her early twenties. She took point, jumped out of the truck. Macumber, however, stayed put in his seat. He glared at Wells.
"Corporal, I ain't taking orders from her."
Wells' head snapped around. "Private, unless you want a court martial in the field, until we get back to base, you'll take orders from whoever I say you will. And right now, the Sheriff is in charge."
"Yes, Corporal," he growled
Wells turned to Miller. "What do you want us to do, Sheriff?"
"Stay awake, get moving and find us some food and water if you can. Gas her up while I think on our next move."
Macumber looked back and forth between the two of them. "Fuck this," he said. Rifle at the ready, he reluctantly followed Fulton into the gloomy horror of the gas station's mini-mart. His body seemed to get sucked into the shadows.
"Hey, Macumber," called Miller out of the van window. "Remember, get us some supplies. We're going to need to eat and soon, and we need water. I don't know about you, but I'm starved."
Macumber emerged again. His prune face screwed up into a scowl. "Yes, sir," he said. He went back inside.
Miller sat in the van with the others. Wells silently handed her a warm bottle of water. She sipped. A hideous vulture dropped silently out of the trembling heat of the desert air. It landed with a thump and waddled over to a purple clump of meat of some unknown variety. The vulture ruffled dark feathers and lazily pecked away. Miller considered shooting the bastard but held back.
POP POP POP ZING! World War III broke out in the Gas-and-Sip as shots were fired and glass shattered. Miller could hear shouting, screaming. She was out of her seat and running toward the mini-mart before she even realized that she'd opened the van's door. Corporal Wells was right behind her. It was over in seconds, the firing stopped as abruptly as it had begun.
"Hold your fire," Miller shouted. "We're coming in!"
Miller entered the building, the big Mossberg at the ready. Wells took her back. She slowed as she ran through the open mini-mart doors, paused in a crouch and quickly assessed the situation. Gloom and shadow, with clouds of dust and gun smoke everywhere. Macumber stood there with his legs apart, the M-4 pointed at something across the room, something that evidently only he could see. Shell casings lay all over the floor. Macumber continued to pull on the trigger of his weapon, though the rifle was now either jammed or empty. Click. Click. Click.
"Cease firing, soldier," shouted Miller. "Where's Fulton?"
Macumber nodded to the blood spattered, bullet-riddled wall behind the counter. Wells didn't wait for her order, he anticipated it. He jogged to the spot. He paused to eyeball everything. He carefully leaned over the counter to look down and behind.
"Aw, fuck."
Miller followed, weapon ready. She ignored the traumatized Macumber. She went around the side of the counter to get a good look of her own. On the floor were three bodies. She saw two male zombies and Fulton. All three had been perforated by a barrage of bullets from Macumber's gun. Good news, he'd managed head shots on the two creatures. Bad news, he'd clearly nailed his partner as well.
"What happened?" asked Miller. She looked up at Macumber, who still mechanically pulled the trigger from time to time, as if lusting after the clicking sound. His eyes were wide and glistened with tears. His mind appeared to be considering a sudden move to visit the rings of Saturn. Miller knew they'd have to talk him down before he ate his pistol.
"Those things had Shayna," said Macumber at last. "She had her weapon out, but she couldn't bring it around in time. The bitch fired a couple of rounds, and one caught me on the vest. Look, I seen what the zombies could do to a person, so I wasted them… all of them. You understand, right? Shit, I had to be sure."
Miller moved a little closer to him. She put her hand on the rifle, and pulled it gently from his grasp. "You got 'em," she said. If he had followed orders, Fulton would still be alive, but it was clear to her that Macumber already realized that. Now he'd have to pull back from the edge and learn to live with his mistake.
BAM! A shot rang out from the back of the Gas-and-Sip. Macumber went down, face first on the floor. Miller dived behind a rack of potato chips. Wells took cover behind an ice cream cooler.
"Hold your damned fire," Miller called. "Zombies don't use weapons."
Another single round exploded a tuna can on the shelf above Miller's head. She ducked down, brushing stinky fish from her hair.
Miller craned her neck to catch Wells' eyes. Instead, she noticed that Macumber was moving. One smoking round was still embedded in the back of his Kevlar vest. Miller thought, I need to get me one of them things one of these days…
"Goddamned looters!" a voice shouted. It was someone from the back of the storeroom. "You're worse than the zombies!"
The voice sounded familiar to Miller. "That you, Luther?"
"Who's asking?"
"Luther, this is Sheriff Miller. Hold your fire and lower your weapon. I'm going to stand up."
"Penny Miller?"
"Yes. Now try not to blow my fucking head off, it's the only one I got." Miller stood, looking in the direction of the voice. There was Luther Grabowski, skinny old owner of the Gas-and-Sip, looking confused and scared shitless.
"Lance," she said to Wells, "we're clear. Go check your man." She grabbed a candy bar off of a shelf, and began eating.
"Penny Miller?" Grabowski asked again. "You're alive?"
"Luther, what the fuck are you still doing here?" She approached him slowly, Mossberg lowered. "You should have run for it."
"I could ask you the same question, Sheriff." He caught sight of her. A big grin crossed his tanned face. Luther was missing a tooth or two, made her think of a jar of baby food. "You picked a hell of a day to get married, Sheriff. Who's the lucky man? Or did you already blow him away?"
"Funny." Miller lowered her head and sighed. "Look, can we get past the wedding dress jokes and get right to the good stuff? Like I said, what are you still doing here?"
"Sorry, Sheriff. But you couldn't expect me to abandon my business. Zombies or no zombies, my old man and I built this place with our hands. I ain't gonna leave it for nothing."
"Commendable," said Miller, "but maybe not the best choice this time out. Listen, we're hauling ass out of here. There's room in the van for you if you want it. But we're outta gas. Are your pumps still working?"
"For you, a full tank for free.
But I'm staying here."
"Much obliged," said Miller. She decided to drop trying to convince him to come along. The Grabowski clan were a damned stubborn bunch.
Wells approached Miller and Luther. "Macumber's okay. It's a good thing Luther hit him square in the vest."
"Well, if it ain't the prodigal son." said Luther. "Sheriff, Willie used to shoplift from my store, the little prick." He turned back to the corporal. "Looks like you finally cleaned up your act and got yourself a real job."
Miller stared Luther down. "Lance," she said, using Wells' proper name, "get Macumber outside and back in the van. Luther agreed to give us a tank of gas. Go take care of that. Me, I gotta pee."
Luther grinned. "Pumps are working, Sheriff. Plumbing ain't."
"No problem. I only intend to use the toilet one time."
Luther hooked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the direction of the ladies room out back.
Miller walked past the chips and cookies then down a dark hall filled with boxes and crates. The air reeked of spoiling food and dead bodies. She made her way out the back door and walked around the south side of the garage. The heat slapped her hard. A sudden movement startled her. She brought up the gun, but it was just another vulture taking off into the bright blue sky. Miller went to the ladies room. She carefully opened the door. There were two stalls. She checked for feet below the doors but saw nothing. Relieved, she propped her shotgun against the sink and entered the stall on the right. Made sure there was paper as she entered.
Miller sat herself down on the relatively clean toilet. It was the first relaxing moment she had had since that morning. She examined her shoulder as she peed. It wasn't bleeding. This bandage could use a change, she thought. She took a deep breath, and enjoyed the peace and quiet.
The door hinges squeaked. Light came in from outside as someone entered. A shadow appeared in the light, and the door closed again.
"Who's there?"
The Hungry Page 10