The Hungry

by Steve Hockensmith

  Macumber: "ETA?"

  Male voice: En route twenty minutes. Out.

  Miller could hear Macumber replace the phone into its cradle as clearly as if she were standing at his side. She shook her head in the darkness. She leaned her forehead on the splintering wood. She placed the cadence and tenor of the male voice. Macumber was betraying them to Sanchez.

  "Twenty minutes," Macumber said, half to himself. He sounded like a teenager practicing an excuse in his mind.

  Miller threw open the back door. She was in the kitchen in one step. "What happens in twenty minutes?"

  Startled, Macumber turned with his rifle up. He faced Miller. She snatched the barrel to one side and easily jerked the rifle free of Macumber's hands.

  "Holy hell, Sheriff," he said, cowering. "You just scared the crap out of me."

  "Who were you talking to?"

  His eyes went crafty. "Oh! I wasn't talking to anyone. I was just mumbling to myself."

  Miller allowed herself a laugh. "You are the worst fucking liar I've ever met, and trust me I've dated a ton of them. That was Sanchez, wasn't it?"

  "S-S-Sanchez?"

  "All right, I'm done with this conversation. You're under arrest. Turn around and put your hands behind your head." Miller looked around the room, searching for something to secure his hands. That was the break that Macumber was waiting for. He jumped back from the table, put his hand on his pistol, brought it up, and fired.

  He hit the kitchen sink. Sheriff Miller wasn't there.

  Impossibly, Penny Miller was already behind him. She grabbed his wrist and twisted until bones snapped. Macumber screamed high and shrill. He dropped the pistol on the kitchen floor, and it landed with a heavy clatter. Terrified, caught between two nightmares, Macumber used his free hand to grab for a carving knife that sat on the counter. He turned halfway and slashed at Miller. Without thinking, she deflected the knife, but the blade bit deep into her forearm.

  Miller grunted. She struck at Macumber with everything she had behind the blow. Her fist caught him square in the nose. Macumber's features and front teeth collapsed. His entire face was crushed with one blow. Her knuckles went through bone and splinters pierced his brain. He dropped to the ground like a zombie with a round through the brainpan. He didn't even twitch.

  Miller stared at Macumber, gripping her bleeding arm. "Stupid fucking kid," she said at last. "You should have just let me arrest you."

  Miller grabbed a dishtowel from the sink. She wrapped her bleeding arm, knowing it would probably heal itself shortly. She headed outside into the night. Her legs weakened from the constant stress and sudden exertion. She staggered out to the waiting bus. The men were all inside, staring out through the windows like frightened children. Miller kept moving, did not complain. She made her way to the open door and climbed up the steps to get onboard.

  "Go."

  "What about Macumber?" asked Wells. He started the engine.

  "Macumber ain't coming," she said. "He was the spy. Now let's roll. Macumber called Sanchez, and they're on their way here. We've got twenty minutes, plus or minus a few. Come on, go, go, go!"

  "Where are we going?"

  "North to Elko," she said, "then east to Salt Lake. And don't you dare tell me we're out of gas."

  "Oh, no, we got plenty of fuel," Wells said. "Don't worry about that."

  They rolled off into the night, rocking from side to side as Wells got the feel of the church bus. It was a sturdy vehicle. Miller felt her stomach rumble again. She looked back over her shoulder. Terrill Lee stood up at the back of the moving bus. He had something with him. He made his way forward. Without a word he sat Miller down in an empty seat. He examined her arm.

  "There's a lot of bleeding," he said, "but you heal quickly and the wound isn't very deep. You got lucky." He'd found some kind of first aid kit in the front of the bus. He bandaged her arm. "Want to talk about what happened?"

  "Not really." Wells turned in his seat to look at her, but Miller couldn't meet his eyes. "Look," she said to no one in particular, "I've had a very crappy day. I'm going to get some sleep."

  She closed her eyes, but all she could see were the dead, the undead, and the surprised look on Macumber's face when she'd killed him with one strong blow. So much death with no end in sight…

  Something touched her, and she opened her eyes again.

  "How long was I out?" Miller asked, blinking.

  "Maybe fifteen minutes," said Scratch. "We were making decent time, so I let you rest, but now we've got a few new problems."

  "Oh, no. The fucking Army again?"

  "Worse," Scratch said. He pointed out the window. Despite the late hour, bright light was somehow streaming in from all sides. A low, nasty rumbling shook the bus and the ground trembled beneath it. Miller had never felt so tired. She rubbed her eyes, confused. Her energy began to return. "What the fuck is that sound?"

  Scratch hesitated. "My club," he said.

  Miller sat up. Her eyes cleared. Wells had brought the old blue church bus to a stop. She looked out the window. Her keen eyes finally focused on the dark hulking motorcycles that lined the highway on both sides. She saw dozens of them waiting patiently. The bright moon and stars had vanished into the yellow haze of headlamps and gasoline fumes. Wherever they were, they were sitting ducks now, in the middle of the dark desert, surrounded by all these bright lights.

  "Jesus, Scratch," Miller said. "If the Army shows up too, we're all toast. These stupid fucks may as well have just laser painted us for an air strike."

  "Yeah, I know," Scratch sighed. "Kind of looks like this is going to be another lousy night."

  FIFTEEN

  "You may as well come on out." A male voice, someone used to power. Miller knew she'd heard it before. Her computer brain ran through files looking for the identity of the speaker. "It will all go better for you people if you cooperate!"

  Scratch sighed deeply. He motioned for Wells to open the door. He looked back just as Miller was wearily reaching for a rifle. She froze, looked at him as if he had lost his mind. "You're not actually surrendering, are you?"

  Scratch smiled. His teeth were straighter and whiter than Miller had noticed before. She tried to picture him in a suit, maybe a black tux, even walking down the aisle to marry her. She failed miserably. Nice fantasy, but wrong dude.

  "Don't you worry your pretty little head, Sheriff. We're on my turf now."

  Scratch signaled Wells again, and this time he complied. The bus doors hissed open. Scratch stepped down the short stairs to the black asphalt road outside. He walked to the endless white stripe in the middle and then motioned to Wells to close the door behind him. The doors whisked shut again.

  Outside, the night air was cool and crisp and a slight breeze stroked the back of Scratch's neck. A ring of pissed off bikers and what was left of the Army. Ah, hell. Why not? Scratch knew Miller was watching through the bus window and enjoyed that. He just stood there for a moment letting the other bikers in the gang get a good look at him, and hopefully realize he was still the boss. Eventually he called out, "Ragnarok, you are a total pussy. You can't take a dump without half the crew here to wipe your ass."

  A single, booming laugh echoed across the canyon. The rest of the tense men stayed quiet. "Well, I'll be ratfucked, Scratch. I never thought I'd see your sorry ass again. I figured you'd have been et up by them zombies and crapped out again for sure by now. I guess you really are as lucky as you are ugly."

  "What was that, Rag? I couldn't hear you over the rumbling of your babysitters' Harleys. Why don't you come out here and face me like you got a duet going in your hairy nut sack?"

  Miller moved to the front of the bus. She pried the door open silently, effortlessly. She peered out as Ragnarok swung his leg over his motorcycle and stepped forward. He waved his arms and the bikes all went silent as one. Ragnarok's huge body was framed in the headlights like some primitive apparition, and his bald head reflected the moon. He kept his hands away from his body to show they were
empty, but Miller knew these bikers stashed weapons in every pocket, bodily orifice, and scrotum wrinkle. "I got me a pair all right and a dick to go with 'em. First I'm going to rearrange your face so bad you'll drown when it rains, and then I'll bend you over and shove my prick right up your lily white ass!"

  It was Scratch's turn to laugh. A few of the scruffy men joined him this time. They were starting to place bets with one another. Miller could hear their whispers clear as a bell. Most of them bet on Ragnarok.

  "No thanks on the ass fuck, Rag," Scratch called. "Sorry, but unlike you, I don't swing that way. We always suspected that you did, though."

  "Fuck you."

  "See? There you go again." Scratch paused. Miller suspected he was waiting for Ragnarok to respond. Miller could see the other man across the road, his slow mind working hard, those flat features fuming with embarrassment. As if bored, Scratch continued anyway, "Come on, I'll make you a deal, Rag. Bring me your ride, and I'll let you sit behind me for a while. But hey, no whispering sweet nothings in my ear, and don't you ever stroke my package."

  "I get it," Rag said. "You just want to piss me off. Well, you ain't gonna rile me tonight, Scratch. This is my club now."

  Scratch laughed again. "Hey, Kong," he called out to the darkness. "I thought I told you to keep this dumb-assed motherfucker in line." Scratch continued to search the faces of the bikers, though he could hardly see past the headlights. Miller could. Watching, she could sense each of the men fidgeting as his gaze passed over them one by one. Scratch was stirring them all up, making them afraid, quietly pulling them to his side of the dispute.

  "Kong's zombie food," Rag said. "So's Bull."

  "Those two? Have to admit, I'm a bit surprised to hear that. They were tough enough. Shit, Bull shaved by pounding his whiskers in with a ball peen hammer and biting 'em off from the inside."

  "Here's how it went down, Scratch. I cut off their hands and feet and let the zombies munch away." He snapped his fingers. One of the Blood Riders held two pairs of boots up in front of the lights.

  Scratch scowled. "You took them out? They were both loyal to me."

  "Is that so? Well, I guess you're in the shitter now, eh, big brother?"

  "You killed two good men over ego. You are one stupid, ugly son of a bitch."

  "What about you, Scratch?" Ragnarok took another few steps forward, now with an obvious swagger in his step. His arms still dangled at his side, a few inches from his hips. He was posing gunfighter-style.

  Back in the church bus, waiting in the doorway, Miller started hearing old Wild West movie soundtracks in her head. Macho bullshit again…

  "When you ran off with your girlfriend in that there wedding dress, one of the boys suggested you went straight. I didn't believe it. But now, here you are with the little wifey in tow." He chuckled, a low, evil sound like marbles caught in a garbage disposal. "That bitch looks like she's had the world's longest, messiest period."

  "You got that right."

  "Scratch, she better be a damn fine fuck for you to turn your back on your family like you did."

  "The Sheriff?" Scratch blew a fart noise. "I ain't with her," said Scratch, "she's with me. After I blew away that little dogshit Deputy Wells, little Miss Miller realized who was actually in charge, that's all. And after that she just couldn't wait to jump my bones."

  Uh oh.

  Inside the bus, Terrill Lee and Wells both looked at Miller. Sheppard just stared.

  All the men said, "What?"

  "So you did sleep with him!" Terrill Lee said.

  Sheppard said. "Guys, what's going on?"

  "Did that fucker really kill my old man?" demanded Wells. They were all riled up and steaming, but over different things.

  "I'm sorry you had to find out this way," Miller said. She said it to Wells, but Terrill Lee took that very sincere apology and ran with it.

  "Oh, my God," said Terrill Lee. He pulled at what was left of his hair. "You fucked that animal, and while you were in our wedding dress?" He turned even more pale than usual. "God damn. I'll never get the sight out of my mind. You've really sunk to new depths, Penny."

  "Shut up, you jealous little prick," replied Miller. She turned to Wells. He was unbuckling his seatbelt. The kid was almost pulsating with anger.

  "Wait," Miller said. She stepped away from the door. "Where do you think you're going, Lance?"

  "That slimy biker trash killed my daddy?" Wells had been blindsided by Scratch's remark. Amazingly enough he was also now sobbing like a child. Tears of grief ran down his cheeks. "He murdered Dad! And you didn't even have the balls to tell me, Sheriff?"

  "Calm down," Miller said to everyone at once. What the fuck is wrong with these people? "Besides, I don't have balls, I have brass ovaries."

  Lance Wells picked up a bowie knife from the weapons cache. Terrill Lee moved up the aisle to Miller, causing her to step away from the door. Wells was wired up and hyper fast. He slipped between Miller and a still stunned Terrill Lee. He grabbed the knob, opened the bus door the rest of the way.

  "Wait," said Terrill Lee. The whooshing noise from the bus door brought him back to his senses. "Don't go out there armed! They'll open fire and kill us all."

  Sheppard surprised Miller by chiming in at once. He ducked back into his seat. "He's right, Corporal. Don't do this."

  "I don't care." Wells wailed like an opera singer with a gas attack. His voice cracked on the high note. "I'm going to gut that piece of shit in front of all his biker buddies. Let's see how he likes that."

  "Don't do this," said Terrill Lee. "Don't make me hurt you."

  "Just try to stop me," said Wells. He held up the knife. Terrill Lee lost his mental boner and stepped back, thus preventing Penny from acting.

  Outside, Scratch and Rag had stopped speaking. They were listening to all the commotion inside the church bus. Now, it was a pretty good show in and of itself, but Rag and Scratch both looked mightily pissed by the distraction.

  Senses heightened, muscles tense, Miller moved Terrill Lee out of the way and dropped him back in the aisle like a small boy. She examined each of them in turn. What was it about men that they have to measure their dicks at every opportunity? She knew that Terrill Lee was bluffing, though she wasn't so certain about Wells. He was young and crazy and ambushed by his own buried feelings. Anything could happen.

  "Lance," she said. "Wait."

  But Wells did it. He stepped down onto the road and walked out into the lights with that gleaming knife in his right hand. Wells turned to look at Scratch. "You shot my Daddy. I'm gonna kill you right here and now, you greasy son of a bitch!" Wells raised the knife. And then his chest exploded. It was on.

  Miller was moving Terrill Lee in an instant. She tore the rifle out of his hands and put him in an armlock on the floor. He was pinned down before he knew what hit him. Shots peppered the metal walls of the church bus, punching holes just over their lowered heads. Sheppard was cursing under his breath, hunkered down on the metal panels by his seat.

  "Stay down," Miller said. The order was meant for both of them. The firing stopped. She peered out of one of the windows at the waiting bikers. Everyone outside, including Scratch and Ragnarok, was now staring up at the bus. The gang was watching her as she looked out into the night. Miller's nostrils filled with the dank smell of blood and viscera from the corpse just below the door. That was an odor she'd hoped they wouldn't encounter again, at least not quite this soon.

  "You okay in there, Sheriff?" called Scratch. Then he caught himself and the macho mask returned. "Shit, I mean I wouldn't want one of my little bitches to get all shot to pieces for no good reason."

  Before Miller could organize an appropriate answer, she heard a familiar low humming sound in the distance but moving closer. Oh, man. Bad to worse.

  Ragnarok called out, "Man, this Sheriff, she sure has your ass pussy whipped." The huge biker shook his head theatrically. "Man, I actually used to look up to you, Jim. You know that?"

  Scratch's head s
napped around, moved so fast that Miller thought it would come off. Uh oh, now he's pissed. Does he hear that sound, too? If so, what's his plan?

  It was Scratch's turn to take a step forward. The men were inching towards one another, working their way up to the inevitable confrontation. "Up yours. That ain't my name, little brother, any more than Artie is yours."

  "Mama would say otherwise, if she were still alive."

  "You leave our mother out of this, little brother," said Scratch.

  Brothers? Those two? Miller thought, you have got to be fucking kidding me.

  Ragnarok put his hand on his hip. He drew a large, ugly-looking handgun with an oddly shaped barrel. "I'm sorry it had to come down to this, Jim." Miller could see the rest of the bikers drawing their weapons now, most aiming them at both Scratch and the blue church bus. That low thrumming sound nagged at her again, but she wasn't sure how good her elevated hearing was, how far away the sound actually was, or if Scratch could even hear it. Miller was distracted anyway, concentrating on Scratch. She was waiting for him to make his play, so she could react.

  Rag said, "I never thought it would be me who blew your ass to Omaha."

  "Nebraska's kind of sad. I spent a year there one night." Scratch kept his hands away from his sides, though Miller could see the butt of a large pistol sticking out of his waistband.

  "I'm going to have to kill you now," Rag said. He actually sounded sorry. "Suppose we'll both be famous for this, bro."

  "Yeah," said Scratch, "folks will make up songs." He reached for the pistol, and dodged to his left. Miller watched him drop and roll to avoid the first few shots. He was moving away from the church bus, drawing their fire his way.

  The sound of a dozens of guns going off all at once rolled through the bus. Then something else, something even louder and far more destructive. WHOMP! Miller heard glass breaking, metal screeching, men screaming outside. She raised her head a bit and watched the motorcycles across the road fly apart as if detonated like a thousand tons of TNT. Miller realized what she'd been hearing all along. The Army choppers had found them. Absolute chaos was followed a moment later by the low overpass of two almost silent Apache helicopters. The row of bikers on the other side of the bus barely had a chance to look up before the Apaches came around for another strafing run. It wasn't anything like a fair fight. This was a slaughter.