The Hungry (Book 2): The Wrath of God

by Booth, Steven

  “Uh, Sheriff?” Lovell turned left around the corner.

  “What’s up?”

  “Be advised that a few of the zombies are still hanging onto the outside of the Winnebago.”

  She considered for a moment. “Can you swerve a bit, try to shake ‘em off?”

  “Hold onto something,” he replied. Then he turned the wheel hard, back and forth. Lovell peered out at the dusty side mirror. He squinted, hands still on the wheel.

  “Well?”

  “They’re still there,” Lovell said. “And here’s our school bus.” It was parked up ahead, maybe a hundred yards or so. They rolled closer. Dust floated around the Winnebago. Miller ran around looking out the windows and into the rear-facing mirrors. Some of the dead children clung to the Winnebago like starving ticks while still others followed fifty feet behind, grunting and grimacing and dragging decaying little limbs through the sand and dirt. Miller shaded her eyes. She was stunned to see that one of the girls behind them was indeed still mindlessly clutching a box of dried up cookies. She shuddered.

  “Okay, stop next to the school bus.” Miller ordered. She rubbed her face. One bite would be fatal, all those little teeth, only so much ammo. Someone would go down. She had no idea how she would get them all out of this one safely.

  “Penny,” said Rat, hefting her shotgun. “Relax. Psycho and I have this one.”

  “I’m not so sure…”

  “Trust us. This isn’t the first time we’ve been surrounded,” Rat said. She turned to the larger soldier. Her face broke open, cracked into a shark grin. “Psycho, remember those drug dealers we went up against outside Bahia Solano?”

  For the first time that Miller could remember, Psycho actually smiled. He had a terrifying smile. Not to mention seriously damned fucked up feelings about women. Psycho took a deep breath. He gazed back at Rat adoringly. “Yes, Ma’am, I remember those bastards.” He racked the shotgun loudly, marched over to stand before the door. “Ready when you are.”

  Lovell pulled up next to the school bus. The obscenely high unhhhh hunhhh sound returned, floated through the air vents. The children behind them wouldn’t need long to catch up, they hadn’t been rolling that fast. The ones hanging from the Winnebago would be on them within seconds once they stepped outside. Miller looked at Rat. She started to object, but realized Rat was right. She shouldn’t risk them all, and Psycho seemed to know his job. They were part of an experienced team and had a history to refer to in the heat of battle. Miller couldn’t match their efficiency.

  Just then, Lovell killed the engine. “Be advised, Rat. You’ve got at least three on either side of the door.”

  “Roger that,” Hanratty replied. Her dark hair bobbed as she counted to herself. Miller could hear a soft, “Three, two, one!” Then Rat turned the knob and swung the door open. Miller and Lovell grabbed their weapons and trained them on the exposed area as Rat exploded through the doorway. She exited and spun left. Three quick blasts came from her shotgun. Miller could hear the rattle of buckshot and the splatter of something wet landing against the outside of the Winnebago. Psycho jumped out two seconds later, went to his right. Four more blasts came. Miller stared out the front window with her heart in her throat.

  Rat and Psycho came around the front of the Winnebago, shooting as they ran. Little uniformed bodies and green hats went flying as tiny heads exploded. Psycho grabbed the toothless little girl by the ankle. He dragged the kid to the ground. Rat aimed down out of sight and apparently blasted her head off. Hot damn, Miller thought, this might actually work. Psycho and Rat met for a second and exchanged hand signals. Then they disappeared around the left side of the vehicle. The others waited in silence in the Winnebago, slowly relaxing. Shot after shot rang out and then at last came a dead silence.

  “All clear.” Rat jogged up the steps from the door.

  “Nice work,” said Miller. She was genuinely impressed. Elizabeth was still curled up with Sheppard, who had his eyes closed. “All right, let’s get that fuel filter, and get the diesel transferred from the school bus to the Winnebago.”

  Penny pulled her pistol from its holster, held it in front of her as she exited the Winnebago. She surveyed the carnage. The huge vehicle looked as if it were just run through a car wash filled with human blood and entrails. Great swaths of gore splattered the paneling, and little chips of bone and teeth could be seen plastered to the paint. Miller felt her gorge rise. Small bodies wearing green and white uniforms lay headless around the perimeter of the Winnebago, leaking God-only-knows-what. Miller stepped around the black-red puddles on the ground. Oh, she had seen it before—hell, she had caused far more destruction that this—but with very few exceptions, the undead murdering that she had engaged in had involved adults, not a bunch of little girls. This sight was especially disturbing. She was glad that Rat and Psycho had done the dirty deed for them.

  “Sheppard?” Miller called, “You keep the kid inside.” Miller didn’t want Elizabeth to see this mess. The last thing they needed was for her to become hysterical again, or even turn catatonic and have to be carried everywhere. They had enough on their hands with Sheppard inured.

  “Okay,” Miller said. “Let’s get this party started. Lovell?”

  “Yes, Sheriff?” Lovell stepped outside. He looked around at the mess that surrounded him, shrugged, and waited patiently for Miller to speak.

  This cowboy don’t rattle easily.

  “Let’s you and me head over to the auto parts store. See if we can’t find you a fuel filter and a siphon pump to get the diesel out of the school bus.” Miller turned to Rat. “You hold down the fort. Keep the child inside, and make sure no one else gets hurt.”

  “Sheriff, may I speak to you privately?” Rat’s expression made it clear she was pissed about something.

  “Make it fast. Over here.” The sun slammed a sledge hammer down. They stepped around the back of the Winnebago into a cool shadow. Crows passed over and circled. A motley pair of vultures emerged from the buildings and wobbled over to peck away at the fresh, steaming human stew. A light breeze came out of nowhere and drove a few complaining dry leaves down the cracked sidewalk. The town seemed even more silent after all the gunfire and shouting. Miller waited for Rat to speak.

  Rat just looked her up and down like a puppet, so Miller said, “First off, I thought we agreed you’d call me Penny.”

  “I’m willing to call you Penny, but only when you aren’t putting the entire team in jeopardy.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, Captain Kirk, that you don’t need to go on every single landing party. I can accept that you’re running this mission, but if you’re going to be an idiot and put yourself constantly in danger, I might just think about fragging your ass myself and taking back my command.” She held the shotgun loosely, but it would have taken nothing more than a flick of her wrist to bring it to bear on Miller. “A leader needs to have the entire situation in her mind, and has to know when to step back as well as when to step up.”

  Miller holstered her pistol. “You think I’m being reckless?” she spat.

  “Yesterday afternoon you told me that the only reason you and your merry little band made it through the first few days of the zombie outbreak was because, and I quote, ‘they had me.’ Now, I’m willing to admit that you are one tough bitch, and you got a way with leadership. But you’re no battle commander. You’re all tactics, no strategy. We have a term for that in the Army. They’re called sergeants. Officers need to think long term, and running off on every little adventure is a good way to die, but not a good way to protect the team. I’m giving you two choices, Sheriff. Stay here in command of the team, or go off with Lovell and take orders from me.”

  “Nice of you to offer me a choice,” Miller said, dryly.

  “Take that as a complement, Penny.” Rat turned smartly and walked away.

  Miller stood at the rear of the Winnebago. For once, she was almost speechless. She sat down on the banged up
back bumper. Her eyes watered. She was damn near ready to cry—and she hadn’t really cried since she was sixteen years old. Miller wanted to explain to Rat that she never wanted to come on this mission in the first place, never wanted to put herself or her friends back into danger. What, she wanted this shit to happen? But here she was, sitting in zombie gore again, looking down at a bus driver’s headless body and a crap load of slaughtered Girl Scouts, with Terrill Lee dead, Sheppard shot, Scratch accused of a triple murder, and a trio of mercenaries, a little girl, and a crazy old man to take care of to boot. Shit fire. This was not what she had in mind for her life.

  Miller sucked it up, as usual. She looked up at the sun. She reckoned it was about eight in the morning, giving them just about ten hours before that bomb went off. She really didn’t want to be around for that, but they weren’t getting any farther away with her sitting on the bumper and everyone waiting for a decision. She made one.

  Miller stood up, straightened her hat, and took a step forward.

  Uhh-uhhnn!

  Miller’s pistol was out of its holster before she even thought about it. She looked around, but there was no one in sight and nothing moving. The short hairs on her neck fluttered, and it wasn’t the dying breeze. As the sun crept higher the area began to stink. Miller whirled in circles. She checked around for the source of the noise. She stepped around the corner of the Winnebago where she saw Scratch talking to Lovell, Psycho, and Rat. She whistled and they turned.

  “I think we’ve got company,” said Miller. She kept scanning the road for any sign of the undead. “I heard something.”

  “Where?” asked Scratch.

  “I don’t know. Didn’t you hear that?”

  “Penny, I don’t hear anything but you.”

  Uh-huh-uhhhh.

  “Hells bells.” Scratch brought up the .30-06. He ran to Miller’s side. Psycho was right behind him. They formed a tight trio, all facing out at the world.

  Miller’s gaze was everywhere at once. “Where the fuck are they?”

  “I got nothing.” That was Rat, from the other end of the Winnebago.

  Uh-huhh!

  “Damn, sounds as if they’re right on top of us,” said Scratch.

  “Seems that way,” Miller replied.

  Finally Miller, Scratch, and Psycho slowly, almost comically, looked straight up.

  The small zombie Girl Scout launched from the roof of the Winnebago. The little blonde girl fell on Miller, knocking her to the ground. The two struggled, the child-thing growling and snapping at Miller’s face, Miller holding her off with both arms. Psycho racked his shotgun, but held his fire to avoid hitting Miller. The zombie was chewing at the air with its wide little mouth, and staring into those empty eyes was seeing death up close and entirely too personal.

  Scratch turned the Winchester around and promptly clubbed the zombie on the back of its little blonde head. The creature lost its grip and Miller finally rolled it away into the dirt. Scratch stepped closer to the creature. The zombie looked up at Scratch. It hissed. Scratch kicked the zombie in the face, knocking it well clear of Miller. Psycho fired, and the zombie’s head exploded into pink and gray mist. The torso fell straight over backwards. The cute little legs kicked and then ceased movement.

  “Are you okay, Penny?” Scratch helped her to her feet.

  Miller said nothing. Without thinking about it, she put her arms around Scratch and held him tight. She kept her eyes closed. Her mind was spinning again, moving fast enough to slip a cog or two. Miller felt close to the breaking point. She held fast, taking comfort from his masculinity, even his male odor.

  “It’s okay, Penny. It’s over.” Scratch caressed her hair.

  Miller held him that way for a long time. Then she realized what she was doing. And that the others were watching. She opened her eyes and looked around. Psycho, Rat, and Lovell were all staring. Psycho looked pissed. Lovell had an odd grin on his face. Rat seemed vaguely jealous. Miller disengaged herself from Scratch. She brushed herself off.

  Suddenly Psycho fell flat on his face. Everyone jumped back. Psycho grunted in surprise. His face contorted as his huge body disappeared under the Winnebago, dragged by one leg. Psycho shouted in anger and pain, a high-pitched sound rivaled only by the grunting sound of the zombies hiding below the Winnebago. Uhhh-huhhh!

  “Psycho!” Rat squatted, shotgun at the ready. She scanned the undercarriage for her teammate. “Sonofabitch! I can’t see him.”

  Psycho continued to scream, the pitch growing higher as the creatures fed on him. They stood helpless, everyone knowing it was already too late. Miller waved everyone back. They waited and could hear his shotgun go off once, twice. Then, as quickly as it began, the shouting and shooting stopped. Silence returned. A nearby vulture landed in the quiet and pecked at a dead Girl Scout.

  Miller’s heart sank. Psycho was dead for sure. To make matters worse, if he wasn’t they’d need to kill him all over again, if they could even find him. Shit, and find all the other zombies who’d just made him a hearty breakfast. Where the hell was the enemy? Where had they come from?

  “Lovell, go move the Winnebago.”

  “Where’re you going?” Psycho spoke in a quiet, conversational tone.

  Everyone looked up. His uniform was torn, and he was splattered with blood, but there was no way to tell if it was his own or from the undead. His eyes were clear, though, and he was talking, so he was still alive. He walked a few steps, straight up enough to be okay. But was he infected? Miller knew they all wondered. Psycho probably did too.

  He was still holding the shotgun.

  “Psycho,” Miller spoke slowly and soothingly. “Are you all right?”

  “I hope,” Psycho said in his usual clipped way. He tried to walk again but staggered a little. “Shit.” Psycho bent over and pulled his pant leg up.

  A small bloody human bite was visible on his hairy calf, with a chunk of flesh missing.

  “Oh, shit,” said Rat. Her voice broke. “Psycho…”

  “Where are the other zombies,” asked Scratch, “the ones that grabbed you?”

  “Vaporized,” Psycho said, smiling. “I shot those little bitches.”

  Miller stepped forward. “Why don’t you hand me that shotgun, Psycho, and let us see what we can do for you.”

  “We both know you can’t help me, Sheriff,” Psycho said with a heavy sigh. He racked the shotgun, expelling an empty shell, which clattered hollowly on the ground. Miller wondered if there was a fresh round in the chamber. Psycho wasn’t the bluffing type. No one moved.

  Psycho shook his head like a sad man at a funeral. Then he pointed the shotgun at Rat. Miller and Scratch both raised their own weapons.

  “What are you going to do, Psycho?” asked Rat calmly, her own shotgun still loose at her side.

  Psycho shook his head again. He lost his balance, recovered it, all without the shotgun wavering from its aim point—right at Rat’s face.

  “Never liked you much, Rat.”

  “You know, I’m not exactly your biggest fan either, Psycho.”

  “Always said I’d take your ass with me.”

  “Don’t do it,” ordered Miller. She had her pistol pointed at his head. Miller ordered herself to fire, to take him out, but something stayed her hand. His finger might twitch and Rat would be a goner. They’d need her skills. It was a standoff.

  Psycho laughed. “What, you gonna kill me, Sheriff? Shit, I’m already dead!”

  Rat stepped forward, closer to the big man. He watched her close the gap. Rat seemed unafraid. Psycho did nothing as Rat approached. Now she was less than a foot away from the shotgun’s barrel. She rested her hand on it, smiled and pushed it gently to the side. She looked Psycho in the eyes. She’d never looked more human. Then Rat said, “I’m really proud of you, Psycho.”

  Psycho lowered his weapon. His body shook from the virus. He tried to remain standing. Miller watched a solitary tear roll down Psycho’s dirty cheek. It slid in slow motion and hit his collar r
ight before his eyes clouded over.

  “Uhhhhh.”

  Psycho’s shotgun went off, down into the dirt, missing Rat’s boot by a few inches. Miller and Scratch fired simultaneously. Psycho’s head collapsed. His corpse fell heavily to the ground. A long stream of blood poured out into the dirt.

  Rat still held the shotgun by its hot barrel. She looked down at the steaming body. Her eyes were genuinely sad.

  “Goodbye, soldier.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  8:38am – 9 hours 22 minutes remaining

  There were no zombies at the auto parts store. It was deserted and had been for some time, although someone had spray painted the side wall with one of those increasingly familiar slogans again: The WrATh of GoD! The little town was blessedly silent for a change. No one living or dead harassed them as they repaired the Winnebago and transferred the fuel from the school bus. They all worked in silence, each trying to process the recent tragedies in their own way, doing the best they could to keep it together.

  Father Abraham was surprisingly quiet about all the carnage splattered on his beloved Winnebago. He was also very complacent about the repairs and their plans to go to Salt Lake. He viewed everything that happened around him as the will of the divine, and that suited Miller just fine. Whatever got him through. As long as no one threatened to go into the back bedroom area of the Winnebago, Abraham seemed content to sit and watch. Sheppard was out a lot of the time, sleeping deeply, though he seemed to be regaining strength.

  Rat and Scratch stood guard over Lovell as the soldier reached into the engine compartment and replaced the fuel filter, and rapidly tinkered around with the motor. Miller also had him inspect under the chassis, just in case Psycho had accidentally shot up something, perhaps the fuel tank or the oil pan. Better to find out now and get things fixed. Lovell checked and said it was all clear and that they were good to go. He climbed out, dusting himself off.

  Elizabeth sat next to Sheppard. She dozed off while the repairs were finished. Miller had no idea how they were going to get Elizabeth and Scratch to the border without some kind of problem, but then that was really the least of her worries. They had already lost two valuable people, Terrill Lee and Psycho, in the space of about thirty minutes. Fairly or not, Miller blamed herself in both cases. She was determined not to lose anyone else. Not now, not later, not ever. Part of her wondered how she was going to pull that miracle off, but, as God was her witness, no one else would die today.