The Hungry (Book 6): The Rule of Three (The Sheriff Penny Miller Zombie Series)

by Booth, Steven W.

  “Stand back, gentlemen.”

  Scratch kicked the burning zombie, rolling it away, and thus touching off another albino. The second one obligingly burst into flames. Scratch felt a wave of relief wash over him. They could win this way. Of course, McDivitt had also made a good point. The trapped, tepid air already stank of the grave, and now the fire was bound to eat up any spare oxygen in such a confined space. Worried as hell now, Scratch kept up a brave front for the others. He motioned them toward the far wall.

  “Back away, and stay together,” Scratch called. Most of the zombies became a writhing funeral pyre. Smoke filled the room. The men began to cough and choke. Scratch motioned them down to their knees where a bit of fresh air remained. “In a minute, they’ll all be toast. Then we can figure out…”

  At that moment, the overhead sprinkler system finally engaged. A warning klaxon blared. It began to rain cold water as if the sky had opened up. A second later, the fire was completely out and the lighter Scratch held was soaked and useless.

  “Shit.” Scratch muttered. “Well, that was a good idea while it lasted.”

  The downpour continued. One by one the remaining albino zombies howled in anguish. Some of them crumpled in on themselves, like the Wicked Witch of the West. Those who’d survived the fire began to dissolve in the man-made rain. Scratch grinned. He had forgotten that albinos hated water as much as fire. The horde instantly thinned again. The odds had greatly improved in a matter of moments.

  Unhh hunhh hunh…

  Scratch surveyed the room. Now just a few of the zombies remained. They were the regular kind of zombies, the usual suspects, grey-green-black in appearance, completely unafraid of the fire and the water. Modeling for the other men, Scratch walked up to the closest of these, grabbed it by the ears. He twisted its neck, snapping it instantly. The thing went down hard with its jaws still snapping, otherwise unable to move. The downpour persisted. Soaked to the skin, Scratch and Scobee and McDivitt continued to kill the undead.

  A moment later, the water shut off, as did the klaxon. Scratch wondered if their captors would come to see if anyone had survived. He certainly hoped so. An open exit would be damned nice right about now.

  “Rolf?” called Scratch. He searched the lumps of clothing that used to be the albino zombies, but couldn’t find a sign of Rolf among them. “McDivitt, Scobee, get busy. We have to find Rolf.”

  There was a loud clanking sound, and the men backed away after exchanging worried looks. Were the soldiers coming to shoot them down? Then, much to Scratch’s surprise, Rolf emerged from a door that they had overlooked. Or perhaps it had been previously hidden, and opened due to the fire alarm. In any event, Rolf was smiling. He held an M-4 and wore the helmet of an Air Force security specialist. He took out the last few zombies with clean headshots. The noise was painful but welcome. They were going to live after all.

  Rolf waved them his way. “Come with me, gentlemen.”

  “Where the hell did you go off to?” demanded Scratch as he strode over to the door. “Shit on a shingle, bro, we thought you were dead.”

  “I will always be with you, friend Scratch. Know that.”

  “Very fucking poetic. Okay, you can explain how you did this on the way out.” Scratch turned to McDivitt and Scobee. “Let’s move.”

  Soaked and exhausted but still breathing, the three men made their way out of the foul-smelling holding tank and walked deeper into the bowels of the Triad’s headquarters.

  Chapter Fourteen

  4 hours, 1 minute from Stage Three (7:59pm)

  Sheppard looked up at the clock for what felt like the seven-hundredth time. The minute hand had hardly moved. Where the hell were they?

  Something banged in the kitchen.

  Sheppard turned abruptly. “Hello?”

  A woman answered. “In here.”

  Down the hall, Sheppard could see Christa McDivitt standing in the kitchen, her hands busy at the counter. Sheppard thought the older woman had a striking face and a strong personality. He knew her husband valued her counsel. Sheppard found something about her comforting, almost motherly at times. Christa had to be worried, but she didn’t show it to her troops. He studied her for a time.

  Sheppard approached Christa, who was still busy making food. “Have you heard from Major McDivitt yet?”

  “Not yet, Captain.” Christa handed him a sandwich. “I’d imagine he and Sheriff Miller are pretty busy right now. Eat up. We haven’t gotten any distress signals. They’ll be home soon.”

  Sheppard chose not to mention his misgivings about the electronic security that might be in place on the base or the possibility that there would be no time to send a distress call. He just took the sandwich. He stood there and took a bite, and actually had to stop and look down at the food in his hand. It was delicious. He’d tasted sliced turkey, cold bottled pickles, crisp lettuce, and spicy mustard. Again, Sheppard felt a little sad. Fresh food had been in abundance less than a year ago, before plague day. Even when he’d been the commander of Crystal Palace, the food hadn’t been much better than all the packaged crap. Before arriving at McDivitt’s headquarters, Sheppard hadn’t seen fresh food since the day before the apocalypse. He had no idea how he’d respond now to going into a fully-stocked grocery store. He’d probably wind up sobbing gratefully into the corn chips.

  Karl Sheppard still remembered the stories his father had told him as a boy about coming home from Africa after a stint with the Peace Corps. How for two years the sight of fresh tomatoes had been enough to reduce him to tears. At the time, that story had seemed overblown and silly. Now, after so many people were dead or dying, and so much had been lost, Sheppard fully understood his father. Part of him just wanted to enjoy a fresh glazed old-fashioned donut. He wanted to go to a funny movie on a hot day, to feel the air conditioning tickle his skin, to hold someone’s hand and laugh out loud without fear. He just wanted to let go of eternal vigilance and relax for a while. Yeah, like that’s ever going to happen…

  Sheppard knew perfectly well that he had an advanced case of PTSD and that, like Miller, he’d been permanently scarred by these experiences. Scratch was another story entirely, since he’d lived his entire life on the edge. He had been overtaken by violence and filled with gallows humor for years before the advent of the zombies. For his part, Sheppard was haunted by the experiments he’d conducted at Crystal Palace, even though they’d all been under orders and subject to close supervision. He cringed at memories of the first wave of zombies shambling down the desert highway, angry and hungry monsters returning to civilization seeking revenge. He regretted daily all the subsequent failures to contain the zombies. He despised the way he had enjoyed being promoted to a higher rank. He’d helped create the crisis, and suddenly they were paying him more to resolve the problem. Yet pride had rendered him helpless to refuse. All of these thoughts, and many more, led Sheppard to be haunted by self-loathing. He suffered chronic feelings of being a fraud.

  Sheppard knew he’d been brave. Most with PTSD had it for precisely that reason, Sheppard had been shot twice, betrayed multiple times, and chased by zombies, survivalists, bikers, cops, and armed drones. More importantly, he had done things to people he never dreamed in a million years that he could be capable of doing. The thought made him cringe. I have every right to be traumatized. If the world ever got back to normal… well, Sheppard knew he’d need to deal with that if and when it happened. He’d either adjust or flame out, one way or the other. He took another bite of the sandwich. He had no appetite. He wanted to know Miller and Scratch were okay. He felt angry and helpless. He wanted his old life back. At the moment, any shot at a return to normality was in Penny Miller’s capable hands. But right then, at that sad moment, Sheppard had absolutely no idea where she was or whether she was even still alive.

  Christa looked up. Her eyes were calm. “Are you all right, Captain?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Sheppard got a glass of water from the sink. He tried to picture Mille
r and Scratch on their way back, safe and sound. Despite Christa’s attempt to reassure him, they were both worried now. Miller and Scratch and the others were long overdue. They had been gone most of the day, and should have been home hours before. Sheppard wanted to help them get home safely. He felt sick with worry, like a parent whose child was out driving for the first time—in the middle of a snowstorm with occasional tornadoes thrown in for good measure. He also felt out of control, and perhaps that was really the issue. As long as Sheppard had had Penny Miller in sight, he knew that he’d somehow make it through. Without her to guard, to fuss over and obsess about, he felt completely lost. She was now the center of his universe.

  Where the hell did that come from? Sheppard hadn’t realized that he had started to almost worship Miller. Not until just now. She’s not the Messiah. She’s not magical, or supernatural, or invulnerable, or invincible. In his heart, Sheppard knew that Miller was just a woman who had been in the right place at the wrong time. She’d been strong enough to receive and endure a backhanded gift from God, which was the zombie virus in a survivable form. Fate had let her live through what should have killed her, accelerated her, and made her superhuman for a short period of time. Sheppard had returned her to normal again. Then, after his promotion, he’d had had to turn her into a superhuman a second time.

  Sheppard closed his eyes. Christa was right to question him. He was getting another stress headache. When that bastard Arthur Rubenstein had come along and taken the program away from him, everything had fallen apart. They’d shot her up again. Still, Penny Miller had come out on top. Sheppard had decelerated her one more time, hoping she’d finally have the chance to be a normal human being, to leave the combat zone behind for a while. Of course, Miller had then gotten it into her head to take on the entire Enhanced Bioweapons Select Committee. She’d come north with eyes wide open and six-guns blazing.

  Sheppard massaged his temples. He admired Miller for her directness and courage, but often regretted allowing her to act on her reckless impulses. If anything happened to her on their mission, Sheppard would consider it his own fault. He could usually keep Miller under control, but she’d gone from a tough, slightly naïve country sheriff with “brass ovaries”—as Scratch liked to say, though Sheppard rarely understood why—to a woman bent on destroying the Triad. She was a mama bear protecting her cubs, which in this case included every living man, woman, and child left in North America. Miller was out to save the world, and that was a big job. The zombie war hadn’t crushed her, it had only made her stronger. No wonder he loved her so much.

  Something touched Sheppard, and he jumped, making his wound stab at him like a hot needle. He turned to see Christa standing right next to him. Her eyes had gone soft with concern. She cocked her head. Behind her the counter was filled with fully prepared sandwiches and a stack of paper plates and cups and a dozen small bags of chips. Dinner was served.

  “You’ve been standing there for a long time, Captain, lost in your thoughts. Are you all right?”

  “I… yes. I’m sorry. I was just thinking. Worrying about Penny, I guess.”

  “Why don’t you go back to your room and get some rest? I promise to wake you if there is any…”

  The darkness hit them like a wall. Sheppard froze and Christa grunted with surprise. Then someone outside the building shouted a warning. They were virtually blind. If it weren’t for a little moonlight coming through the small window, Sheppard wouldn’t have known he was still standing in the kitchen.

  “What’s going on?” He’d meant to make that a statement a demand for information, but it sounded like a whine. Sheppard was scared out of his pants, and not just for his own safety. Night had fallen like a dark shroud. The power was out. Miller was gone. They had no weapons.

  “I don’t know. Maybe the generator quit.” Christa fumbled for the kitchen counter. Sheppard could hear some dishes clatter and utensils clink. Then he heard the squawk of a radio demanding attention.

  “Chuck, this is Christa. Please report.”

  A popping sound came from the radio, as if the transmission button had been depressed, but no one spoke. Were they signaling instead? Was someone right on top of them? A small amount of static crackled and hissed over the connection. Christa fumbled around in the dark with her free hand, likely searching for a flashlight or candles. Sheppard joined her, like a man struggling to read Braille. He’d just remembered seeing a flashlight somewhere near the microwave.

  “Help me…”

  Sheppard whispered, “What was that?”

  Christa shushed him and the voice came again, “Help me…” It was a soft, drawn out sound, a man’s slurred, whispered voice. It had to be Chuck trying to talk into the radio, but it sounded like the voice of someone half asleep and lost in a nightmare. Sheppard’s blood chilled as visions of The Amityville Horror flashed through his mind. “Help…” Something ticked the hair on his neck. His bowels loosened. He fought to remember his training. He leaned closer to Christa in the darkness.

  “Christa, what’s going on?”

  “Wait.”

  Christa put the radio down and fumbled her way across the kitchen. She certainly knew her way around in the dark. Sheppard heard a drawer open, and something metallic made a scraping sound. Christa snapped her fingers in the gloom.

  “Come over here and take this.”

  “What is it?” Sheppard blinked rapidly to adjust his eyes to the darkness. The sliver of moonlight was a blessing. He could almost see now. Christa had an arm extended. Sheppard closed the gap, walking carefully. His boots scraped and thudded quietly on the linoleum floor.

  “It’s a gun,” Christa whispered back. “Here, take it.”

  Sheppard kept her shape in sight. He followed the sound of her voice, arms out, trying to remember where exactly the kitchen table was located. He stepped around it with one slightly bump at the side. He managed to find Christa without banging into any other furniture or making any loud noises that might call attention to their presence. Who is out there? What is happening?

  Christa took him by the wrist and placed a handgun in his right hand. Then she handed him some magazines of ammunition. “Stay quiet, Captain. Remember, we still have our people to think about. We are not alone in the building. Choose your shots carefully.”

  Sheppard pocketed the ammunition. He felt to make sure there was a magazine in the handle of the pistol, and softly racked the slide. Nothing clattered on the ground, so it hadn’t been primed. He now had every reason to believe that he had a loaded pistol in his hand. He damned well hoped so. Sheppard pictured Miller and Scratch and spoke to them mentally, I’ll get out of here alive and I will find you. Stay safe.

  “We’ve got to get to the armory, Captain,” Christa whispered in his ear. “Follow me. Everything we’ll need is in there. We’ve rehearsed this many times.”

  “Do you have a flashlight, Mrs. McDivitt?”

  “Christa,” she insisted. “There is one in the next room. Come on, we probably won’t have much of a window to act.”

  Though he’d strolled around the compound, in the dark Sheppard was still in strange territory. Christa took him by the left wrist and placed his hand on her shoulder. Then she moved forward, toward the faint light leaking in through the next window. Sheppard’s eyes had fully adjusted to the dark. He could make out a few features, including the doorframe. He had a loaded weapon, and he was feeling stronger.

  Something was moving around outside. Someone trying to be quiet but failing miserably.

  “Looters?” Sheppard whispered.

  “Don’t know. We should assume the worst.”

  Sheppard didn’t need any help figuring out what the worst would entail. Zombies he could handle—he had proven that over and over—but a platoon of mercenaries and special ops men? Not likely. He could already picture men in black uniforms wearing night vision goggles coming up behind the two of them with garrotes. After all he’d already been through, that was not the way he wanted to go ou
t. If it was Sheppard’s time, he was definitely following Miller’s example. He was taking a ton of the enemy with him.

  Christa led the way and he followed quietly. The unlikely pair went through the kitchen door together, feeling their way along the wall. The noises from outside quieted a bit but also shifted closer.

  Sheppard let his fear slide into a healthy and self-righteous anger. Someone had declared war on people he cared about. They thought they could win that war by disorienting and dividing. They’d assumed Sheppard and McDivitt’s friends would just crumble under the pressure of darkness. That their nighttime assault would give them the insurmountable advantages of fear and surprise. If they thought it would be that easy, Sheppard would prove them wrong.

  Christa led him into the darker room as she searched for a flashlight. Sheppard clutched his unfamiliar weapon, his heart racing from a surge of adrenaline. The fear was gone. He clenched his teeth as his blood thickened. The rage was upon him. Sheppard was a lot of things, but never a coward. He didn’t like being underestimated. He let anger swell up until it drowned out the pain in his wounded side and overcame the very human desire to run away. He was going to do some damage this night.

  Christa and Sheppard walked deeper into the compound and came to the next room over, this time the edge of the dining hall. Christa tugged and Sheppard followed. She cut sharply in front of him as they came closer to their goal. Sheppard could hear Christa fumbling around for something, and then, as if by the word of God, a bright light appeared. Sheppard blinked and looked away.

  Christa turned off the flashlight she’d found and handed it to him. In the brief glare Sheppard had registered that Christa now carried a large, slender kitchen knife. The kind that would slip easily between the gaps of a Kevlar vest. Good. She’s willing to fight when the time comes.

  “Where do we go now?”