The Hungry 2: The Wrath of God

by Steven W. Booth

  Scratch drank half the plastic bottle, his throat working greedily. He had a perpetually dark and rather sexy George Clooney-type stubble. "It's about three o'clock, far as I know. Come on, Penny, the Dome Doc is waiting."

  "Let him wait," Miller said, without much conviction. Without thinking, she began to change out of her sweaty t-shirt. She stopped. Spoke abruptly. "Unless you want me to tear your eyes out and feed them to you like Jujubes, I suggest you get your horny ass the hell out of my room."

  "Whatever," said Scratch. His eyes dropped. He turned to leave.

  "See if you can rustle me up me something to eat, would you?" she asked, her tone a tad softer. "I'm starved."

  "What else is new?" mumbled Scratch. He left without looking back. Miller realized she'd hurt his feelings. After all, he'd worn clean clothing for a change and had washed his long hair. Now that she was awake she caught the faint scent of a man's cologne. Scratch had tried to gussy himself up for her. Damn you're a bad assed pretty boy…

  Miller waited until she heard the door click. She stripped out of her damp clothes. They'd all taken to wearing t-shirts, sweats, and jeans found in one of the deserted stores located downstairs, rather than the green hospital scrubs that their Army hosts had assigned them. Miller tied on a pair of running shoes—not that there was anywhere to run—and brushed her long red hair. She knew Dr. Rubenstein would be a mite pissed at her for making him wait, but that suited her just fine. She never had much room in her universe for head shrinks, and this one hadn't changed her opinion, not one damn bit.

  Besides, what the fuck was she supposed to do, read another book? With nothing on cable, and only military news on TV, she had nothing better to do than read all the crap available in the gift store downstairs, mostly romance novels. Images of buff shirtless men and buxom incompetent women filled her mind. Then she would look up at the bozos she had been forced to live with lately. Oh, her ex-husband, Terrill Lee, was okay to have around if you were a sick farm animal, but not much good to anyone else. Karl Sheppard, the army scientist? He was a good-looking sucker, but he was also gayer than San Francisco on Pride Day. Scratch was a criminal and a recovering biker, who until today hadn't taken a bath since the decontamination shower over three weeks before.

  They'd been through a lot together, and saved each other's asses more than a few times, but as men they left a lot to be desired. Reality gave lie to all the bullshit those romances tried to jam into women's brains, and left her sexually frustrated to boot. Not for the first time, Miller wondered if the zombie virus she'd picked up a ways back had left her overly hungry in more ways than one. She sure had hormones and food on her mind almost all the time, day or night.

  Miller finished brushing a knot out of her hair. She tied it up into a regulation bun, and headed out into the main room of the penthouse. Terrill Lee and Sheppard sat at the dining table, yet another game of Gin Rummy before them. They had found some cards on the first day of their seclusion here at the top of the luxury hotel, and hadn't tired of playing since. The endless stock of booze probably helped. Miller guessed that after all the shit that came down, anything was better than wading hip-deep through a swamp full of zombie guts. Still, she was climbing the walls from sheer boredom.

  "Hey, Penny," said Terrill Lee, without looking up.

  "Good morning, gents," Miller called as she made her way through the main room.

  "Good afternoon, Sheriff," said Sheppard. "You're sleeping late. Bad dreams again? Are you feeling all right? Can I get you anything?"

  Miller stopped where she was. Hands up and palms out, said, "I'm fine, thanks. Just go back to your game."

  "No trouble at all," Sheppard said, standing.

  Miller held her ground. "Damn it, Sheppard, don't you get all up in my stuff. I am in no mood to be mothered right now."

  Sheppard sank back into his seat. He had that sad, disappointed look on his handsome face. He'd found an antidote and rescued her from the zombie virus. Unfortunately the injection didn't fully destroy the zombie virus in her system, just slowed the effects of the genes that had been inserted into her cells. Instead of super strength, agility, speed, and hearing, the antidote just left her hungry and bitchy, with no way of knowing if Miller would become a zombie herself upon her death. Not a fun prospect. Sheppard carried a lot of guilt on his shoulders.

  "Sheppard, let it go."

  He picked up his cards and stared down. His cheeks reddened. "All right, then. Just let me know if you need anything."

  "Believe me," she said, softening again. Men. "If I need anything, you'll be the very first to know."

  Miller saw some granola bars on a wooden table. She grabbed one and gobbled it down while walking. She continued on through the penthouse to the TV room, went in, and closed the door behind her.

  Dr. Arthur Rubenstein sat comfortably in one of the easy chairs facing the TV. Another chair—the one Miller was supposed to occupy—faced away from the screen. There hadn't been a Goddamned thing but an hour or two a day of military news and crap propaganda on air since they'd gotten here. The cable had been shut down during the evacuation of Las Vegas. The rotund, balding Dr. Rubenstein still insisted that the screen presented a distraction.

  "Hello, Penny," said Dr. Rubenstein, a bit too cheerfully.

  "Artie," said Miller.

  Rubenstein made a note on his pad. He did so every time she called him by his first name. In private, every once in a while, Miller pondered what doing that said about her personality. Ultimately, she figured it meant that she was already tired of dealing with his psychobabble. Besides, since she couldn't remember giving him permission to call her Penny instead of Sheriff Miller, why not return the lack of respect?

  "How are we feeling today?"

  "Artie," Miller sighed. "How many times do I have to explain this to you? I am fine. We are two different people, and I couldn't give a shit less how you are feeling. Now, are you actually asking how I am feeling today, or are you just being stubborn as a pack mule staring down at a straight drop?"

  Rubenstein scribbled another note. "I assume you've had another bad night?" he ventured. "Unpleasant dreams again?"

  Miller looked away. "If I say yes, will you let us out of this gilded cage? Come on, Artie, you can't keep us here forever. Under Nevada law, you have seventy-two hours to charge us with something, or you have to let us go."

  Dr. Rubenstein looked up over his notepad. He held her eyes for a long moment. More psychological bullshit, Miller thought. But she wasn't about to look away. If this was a contest of wills, this asshole doctor had a lot to learn about her. Sheriff Penny Miller didn't back down. After an eternity—Miller's eyes actually stung from being open so long—Rubenstein broke it off first. He looked up at the ceiling, feigning boredom. "Now, now, Penny, you know that it's not that simple. You aren't prisoners here. You are merely in protective custody."

  Miller practically jumped out of her chair. "Protection from what? Them zombies? If you had any sense at all, you'd be protecting the zombies from us. Believe this Doc, my little crew of misfits knows how to handle a bunch of slobbering undead fucks. We were doing just fine on our own when the Army finally arrived to rescue itself. You want a demonstration?" She reached for a vase, and held it as a shot put, ready to hurl into Rubenstein's smug face.

  The doctor went slightly pale but kept it together. He ignored her and made more notes. Finally, Miller began to feel a little silly. She replaced the vase on the table. After another long moment, she also resumed her seat.

  "Thank you, Penny," said Rubenstein.

  Her pulse jumped again. "For what? Not smashing your face in? If you want to thank me, you'd let us walk the hell out of here."

  Before Rubenstein could respond, his cell phone rang—must be a satellite model, thought Miller. She started to ask if that was why it was still working. The doctor held up a finger for silence, and answered the phone.

  "Yes, sir?"

  Long pause. Miller strained to hear the other end of th
e conversation, but her preternatural hearing had gone the way of the dodo. The outrageous superpowers had vanished after Sheppard had given her an anti-zombie-virus shot back at his secret Army base. Hell, that had been almost a month ago now. Zip. Nada. Static. All she could hear now was the waa waa waa, like the grown-ups in some old Charlie Brown cartoon. Sometimes she missed being hopped up on zombie steroids. Sometimes, though not really.

  The doctor shook his head. "No."

  Short pause.

  "About as much as we can hope for, I suppose," said Rubenstein. He looked up at Miller, that annoyingly neutral expression on his round face. "Yes, sir. I think she'll be happy to hear that." Rubenstein closed the phone.

  "Happy to hear what?" Miller demanded.

  "Come with me," Rubenstein said. He got up with renewed energy. Miller was on her feet in an instant. Her pulse sped up. Something, anything was going to change. Good. She followed him back into the main hotel room, where they found Scratch, Sheppard, and Terrill Lee seated on one of the long, ornate couches. They were all facing forward—a bunch of little boys waiting for the nuns to deliver them an ass whipping for farting at mass.

  Miller paused in the doorway. Sitting on a gold loveseat with his back to her was a man she didn't recognize. Rubenstein motioned her forward. The man stood as they entered the room. He was decked out in desert camouflage, but his stars were clearly visible. He was about sixty years old, from what Miller could guess, but still in very good shape. Not exactly handsome, the years hadn't been kind to him. His short white hair was clipped in a traditional high-and-tight. His green eyes played over her, and he smiled slightly. A guy winning at the tables or a redneck Romeo hoping to get lucky. He stepped forward and held out his hand.

  "Sheriff Miller? I'm General Edward Gifford. It's a real pleasure to meet you."

  Miller shook his hand. She didn't return the smile. "General, I'll let you know if it is a pleasure when I finally figure out whether you're our savior or our jailer."

  Gifford's smile broadened a bit. He clearly admired her spunk. Miller didn't particularly appreciate how he liked it.

  "Let's just say I'm your parole officer. Have a seat, Sheriff." The tone was polite and deferential. The statement was clearly an order.

  Miller looked at her options. She took the padded armchair that sat at the end of the couch. Dr. Rubenstein took the seat opposite Miller. Terrill Lee, Scratch, and Sheppard stayed put, waiting for a lecture from the Principal. Gifford resumed what now appeared to be his throne. He placed a dark brown briefcase in his lap. He surveyed them all.

  Out of the blue, Terrill ventured a joke. "I suppose you're wondering why I called you all together here today."

  Everyone looked at him. No one spoke for a long time.

  "Sorry," Terrill Lee said. He slumped down into his seat. Sensing his discomfort, Sheppard turned and smiled kindly.

  Miller looked pointedly at the General. She said, "So why have you called us all together, General? And what's this shit about parole? Are we getting out of here, or what?"

  General Gifford blinked. He cocked his head admiringly. He sat down. "Let's get right to the point then, shall we?"

  "Yes," Miller said. "Let's."

  "The Army wants you four quarantined for the duration. Sheriff Miller, you are a unique specimen, the only living person to have received both the zombie virus and the antidote. You went to hell and back and survived. The rest of you were witnesses and participants in an adventure which violated any number of Homeland Security regulations. You broke into and stole classified materials from a Top Secret installation. It isn't too much of a leap to call you traitors."

  Miller shook her head. "You don't need to tenderize the meat, General. You're here for a reason. Let's hear it."

  "Yes. Well, despite all of that… We have something that we want you to do for us, Sheriff. All of you, in fact."

  "After which?"

  "After which all charges will be dropped and you may leave the premises."

  "Just like that?" Scratch said, dryly.

  "Almost," General Gifford said. "We'll fly you far away from the Occupied Zone and you can start your lives over."

  Miller leaned forward. "And just what do you have up your gilded sleeve?"

  Gifford leaned closer as well. He produced a slim folder from his briefcase and opened it. "A mission. Don't worry, it's just a milk run."

  "Do we look worried to you, Gifford?" asked Scratch. But he managed to look only semi-tough sitting on that fluffy, gold paisley sofa.

  That remark earned a laugh from the general. "I didn't mean to insult you, Mr. Bowen… "

  "Scratch," corrected Miller, Terrill Lee, Sheppard, and Rubenstein, simultaneously.

  "Yes, of course," said General Gifford. He cleared his throat. "At any rate…"

  "Why don't you tell us a little more about this harmless little milk run of ours, General," said Miller. Her tone dripped sarcasm.

  General Gifford cleared his throat again. He perused his folder. "It's simple, actually. We need you to return to Science Station TK-508 and retrieve some data."

  Miller said, "What the hell is Science Station TK-508?"

  Before the General could answer, Sheppard said, "He means we have to go back into Crystal Palace."

  Terrill Lee and Scratch both shifted uncomfortably in their seats. They said nothing. Frustrated, Miller blurted out, "That's your little milk run? You want us to go back to zombie central, where we almost died just a few weeks ago, and pick up your dirty laundry?"

  "I assure you it is perfectly safe," began Gifford. "The zombie outbreak in the area has been contained. You'll be in and out before anyone knows a thing."

  "Excuse me, General," Miller said, "but if it's so perfectly safe, why not send your own troops? Why do you need us to go back?"

  "Because you four have a completely unique set of skills, you have direct knowledge of dealing with both the virus and the zombies, and far more importantly, of the target site. No one else alive has your experience with TK-508. It was beyond Top Secret, and thus we are unfamiliar with its systems. To insert beginners and somehow bring them up to speed in time is impractical, probably impossible. Look, we'll have you covered every step of the way. You'll be going in as advisors only. I guarantee you won't see any combat."

  Miller shook her head.

  "And if we agree to do your shopping for you," Scratch said, "exactly what do we get out of it beyond safe passage the hell out of Nevada?"

  "How does fifty thousand each sound?"

  Scratch puffed his chest. "Now you're talking."

  "But there's more." Gifford caught the eye of each of them in turn. He stopped at Miller. "There's a real hope that, if we get what we want, we may be able to cure Sheriff Miller once and for all."

  Sheppard sat up suddenly. His eyes widened as his scientific mind flared. "You've had a breakthrough?"

  "In a manner of speaking."

  "What's that mean?" demanded Miller. "What's he saying?"

  Dr. Rubenstein spoke up. "It means, Penny, that there is a possibility that the zombie virus that has infected you can be eradicated once and for all. In you and in all others who have been infected. If you succeed, we can make a better antidote so that this whole nightmare will be over within a matter of months."

  "And all we need to do is go on this milk run?" mused Miller. "And what, get you the files and discs and samples? That's it?"

  "That's it. You go in with Special Ops protection, locate what we need, and return."

  "And we go in packing, right?" Miller said.

  Gifford said, "Everything the mission will need is already on board the helicopter."

  Scratch interrupted. "Let's talk some more about the money."

  Gifford smiled that weird I'm gonna get lucky soon smile. "Like I said, if you get us what we want, you and your friends will earn your release and a lot of cash. You can just go about your lives."

  "I don't know," said Scratch, tapping his chin with one finger. "I kin
da like the sound of a million each."

  Terrill Lee nodded in agreement.

  Gifford seemed to contemplate their greed. "I'm authorized to go as high as two-hundred-fifty thousand each. That's my best offer."

  "I'm in," chimed Scratch. Ka-Ching! His eyes were rolling like dark cherries in the windows of a slot machine.

  "Guess I'll settle for that," said Terrill Lee, a bit more reluctantly. "Gonna go bonkers sitting around here for the duration." Miller knew her ex-husband. He was already spending the money in his mind. Probably fixing to buy jet ski, a couple of dirt bikes, and an entire nude mud wrestling team. The pig.

  "I'm in, too." Sheppard was sitting at attention, tense and uncomfortable. Miller noticed and felt something was very off. Something Sheppard wasn't saying aloud. "If it means curing the Sheriff, then I'm going. After all, I know exactly where everything you want can be located. This mission needs to happen."

  Gifford turned his head. "Sheriff Miller?"

  They all looked at her.

  Miller shook her head. "No."

  The men in the room stared.

  Miller said, "I think you're full of shit, General. If it were that simple, you would have already just sent a battalion of your professional flying monkeys to take care of it. What aren't you telling us?"

  General Gifford let the smile drip off his face. Miller glared at him. Gifford frowned. He lost the staring contest, and Doc Rubenstein seemed quietly pleased by that fact.

  "There is the question of timing," Gifford said. "We're under the gun. Frankly, I am under orders to destroy TK-508 and all its facilities by eighteen hundred tomorrow." He consulted his watch. "That is, just over 26 hours from now."

  "When?" asked Scratch.

  "Six PM," said Sheppard and Terrill Lee together.

  "Why the hell would they want you to do that?" asked Miller.

  Gifford looked at her, the weight of his rank seeming to come down heavy. "The Secretary of Defense sees this as a no-brainer, Sheriff Miller. TK-508 is the origination point of the zombies. We have fresh intel that suggests that not only do certain foreign groups know that fact, but they know the location of TK-508 and what to look for. In case you hadn't noticed, the United States of America is a mess, and Nevada is the Wild West. At the moment, the zombies are contained mostly within Nevada. We have to end this. Our borders are worse than ever now. Can you imagine what would happen if the zombie virus got into the wrong hands, or if some corporate interests located the cure and blackmailed the US government? Those are risks we are simply not willing to take."