The Hungry (Book 3): At the End of the World (11 page)

“I’m telling you, Greta had turned,” Miller said. “She died. She was a zombie. Crosby, believe me, I know what I’m talking about.”

Miller stood tall in the small cell, her fingers white from clutching the bars. Crosby had locked her in. As for her trusty Smith, it was now imprisoned in the gun cabinet behind Crosby’s desk—the weapon might as well have been back in Nevada for all the good it would do Miller when the zombies finally attacked. She’d tried to reason with the Constable. Time was running out. She had to figure out how to get out of the cell and back to the lodge.

“I’ve seen them, Crosby. I’ve seen it all. It ain’t like in the movies, with one or two zombies wandering aimlessly. They gather together, sometimes hundreds of them, and they’re not shy about coming after the living.” She took a breath. “They’re here in Hope Springs, and if you don’t do something about it, every single person in your village is going to wind up dead really fucking soon. Don’t you get that? Are you even listening to me?”

“Not anymore,” Crosby said.

“Look, Crosby, I really appreciate you backing me when it came down to subduing and arresting this sorry-assed, smelly, tobacco chewing, beady-eyed, pimply redneck little weenie dog here when he tried to rape me.” She hooked her thumb at Martin.

That string of invectives drew a mean stare from the man in question, who now sat in the cell next to Miller. Martin exchanged looks with his two sullen friends. All three of the men then started staring at Miller with hate in their eyes. The thought of three rapists being so close to her when she was unarmed gave Miller the creeps. She’d be damned if she’d give them the satisfaction of knowing she was bothered. She continued to ignore the trio and concentrated on Crosby.

“Crosby, listen. If you don’t buy the zombie issue, go back in the store and check the body. Go look at her for yourself. I can tell you right now what you’re going to find. The irises of her eyes will be white as boiled eggs, and she’ll already smell like she has been dead for a week instead of only thirty minutes. She’ll also be emaciated from having a high-speed metabolism—her body was already eating itself from the inside out, which started before she even got here. Look for yourself. You don’t have to believe me if you don’t want to, but you’ll sure as hell have to believe your own eyes.”

Crosby didn’t even glance her way. “Sheriff, please just shut up.”

The Constable sat up and grabbed a piece of paper with some numbers written on it. He smiled and turned his chair to the big, old-fashioned radio set. He flipped a couple of switches, and soon Miller could hear a loud humming sound coming from the ancient device. Even the radio back at Miller’s headquarters in Flat Rock had been more modern than Crosby’s, and that sucker had likely been built and sold during the Nixon/Ford administration. The radio was one of the many things she had planned to replace after the remodeling of her jail had been completed. Well, it was remodeled to hell and gone now, that’s for sure. Miller shook off a wave of sadness.

“What are you doing?”

Crosby turned a few dials. He cleared his throat like an announcer preparing to broadcast for the first time. He picked up the microphone, a one-piece unit the size of a small blender. It looked like an antique transported from the set of some old radio show.

“Larimer Sheriff, this is Hope Springs Constable Crosby. Do you copy?”

Static crackled softly from the speakers. Crosby sat back to wait for a reply. Watching from her cell, Miller shook her head in dismay. She knew there wouldn’t be many folks left down the mountain, probably not alive and able to answer, anyway.

“Larimer Sheriff, this is Carter Crosby on channel sixteen. Do you copy?”

No response. More static. Crosby got that worried look again. The men in the cell next to Miller went to clutch their own bars, riveted by the drama. No answer meant dead serious trouble. Miller studied the men. She could read their eyes, especially the youngest one. He was flat out terrified.

“You aren’t going to get anywhere with that thing,” Miller said finally. “If the zombies have already reached up here to Hope Springs, there may be nothing left of the Larimer Sheriff’s department.”

Crosby stood and closed the door between his office and the jail cells. The window allowed her to watch him as he checked the piece of paper he had found, turned another dial very precisely. He flipped a different switch. Miller began to wonder if he’d even used the equipment before. “Larimer Sheriff, this is…”

A loud, high-pitched squeal blasted out of the speakers. Everyone jumped. Martin stepped back from the bars and the other two men stiffened. The noise was abrupt and chaotic. It sounded a lot like digital traffic, like a fax machine screeching to another fax machine. Most of the racket was high-pitched squeal, but even the lower, more throbbing tones were harsh and grating at the edges.

Frustrated, Crosby checked his trusty paper again. He changed the channel one more time. “Larimer Sheriff, do you copy?”

Miller couldn’t hear through the closed door, but Crosby sat up like he had made a contact. Smiling, Crosby turned up the volume.

“Hello?” he said tentatively.

“This is the United States Army.” The woman speaking sounded angry and hoarse, frayed internally like someone who’d been working non-stop for a very long time. “You are transmitting on a restricted channel. You are ordered to cease all transmissions immediately.”

“Hey! Hey, this is Constable Crosby of Hope Springs, Colorado. I need to reach the Larimer County Sheriff. There’s been a murder here and…”

“Look, citizen,” the woman said, “I don’t care who you are. This channel is reserved for military traffic only. In case you haven’t gotten the memo, the president has now declared martial law for all the Rocky Mountain States. Now, get off this channel. Stay off. Anything about that you don’t understand…
Constable?
”

The human voice vanished. The digital noise resumed; that loud, piercing sound. The three men in the cell next to Miller retreated to the far wall.

Crosby snapped off the radio. He turned to look at the prisoners waiting in the two small cells tucked in the corner of his jailhouse. At first he ignored Miller and focused on Martin and his two companions. The men stared back at him. Miller watched, puzzled. Something seemed to happen between the four males, something unspoken. Whatever it was, the message was exchanged quickly. Crosby looked down at his desk, clearly coming to a decision of some kind.

Much to her surprise, Crosby opened the door separating them again.

Miller decided to try one last time to talk some sense into him. “I know how you feel, Carter. It’s scary thinking that the world is balls out going to shit, but think about it. Why would the president declare martial law if something really big wasn’t coming down the pipe? The zombies aren’t a rumor. They are real and their numbers are growing. It’s spreading. It’s a plague. Death has arrived here, in Hope Springs, your village of all places. Even I never thought the zombies would get this far up so fast. Please go back to the store and take a look. Greta’s corpse is proof that…”

“Greta’s corpse isn’t proof of anything,” Crosby said, “except that you are a cold-blooded murderer.”

“You don’t really believe that. I can hear it in your voice.”

Crosby scoffed. “Give me a break, Sheriff. You must think I’m a rank amateur. Let’s look at the facts. You came here this morning telling me that Greta stole your money and your ride. She spoke to you people as if there was bad blood between you. Then you shot her dead in front of witnesses. Any jury would think you took advantage of the chaos down below to have your revenge the minute you saw her walk into the store.”

“That’s not what happened, Crosby. If I hadn’t shot Greta, she would have bitten someone, maybe someone you care about. They would have bitten someone else and so on. Hell, you would have had a village full of zombies by nightfall. For all I know, you may still if you don’t let me out of here.”

“Look, lady.” Crosby stood up. He closed the distance, pointing his finger at her face behind the bars. “I don’t buy that bullshit about zombies, okay? You and Jim can tell one hell of a story, but that’s all it is, a
story.
Something else is going on out there.”

Miller sighed. “Like what?”

“I don’t know,” Crosby said, gesturing out the window. “Maybe the Chinese—or the North Koreans or the Arabs or someone—finally went off their nut and bombed the fuck out of Nevada, hoping to spread nuclear fallout. It made people sick and crazy. The National Guard lost control of the situation. The fact that we’re under martial law goes to prove something big is going on, but real live… dead fucking zombies? Give me a break. That’s impossible, Sheriff. And if you believe it’s real, then all I can say is that you’ve been watching too much cable TV.”

His bravado was infectious. The three men in the cell next to Miller chuckled softly. That asshole Martin made kissing noises under his breath. Miller wanted to reach through the bars and strangle his sorry ass. She continued to focus on Crosby instead. She remembered that first terrible night back in Flat Rock. How hard it had been to get her head around what was really going on.

“I didn’t believe it either, Crosby,” she said. “I can still remember when my deputy called to tell me what was happening. It seems ridiculous. But when you actually see one, a real zombie, see what it can do, well, by then it may already be too late. You need to warn your people,” Miller continued. “Tell them to arm themselves, board up their homes. And if anyone dies mysteriously, under any circumstances, the best thing you can do is to shoot them in the head, just to make sure. It’s the only way you can kill these things.”

Martin snickered. So did one of the other two men.

Crosby closed the door between them again. The conversation was over. He turned to the gun cabinet and began loading a bolt action Remington. Miller heard something, and she turned to look at the three prisoners. Martin and his buddies were grinning at her. At least they were still on their side of the bars.

A noise came from outside. They all heard it at once: Someone shouting, feet running. Crosby lifted the rifle and pointed it at the door. Miller pounded on the bars.

“Crosby, give me a weapon, damn you!”

A moment later someone hit the office door—they banged on it with their shoulder, almost as if they were expecting it to open—and whoever it was tried the lock several times. Zombies didn’t think that fast. Those were people outside. Scared people asking for help. They began pounding on the wood.

“Calm down!” shouted Crosby, stepping up to the door. He cycled the bolt. “Stand back from the door.”

“Carter, it’s Michelle and Jim. Quick. Open up!”

Scratch was outside. Miller sagged with relief.

Crosby went to the door, and unlocked it.

Scratch and Michelle burst in… and stopped dead when they saw Crosby was pointing the rifle at them.

Scratch stepped forward. “Right idea, wrong target, Carter.” He reached out for the barrel of the rifle—to push it down, Miller presumed—but Crosby jerked it away. Miller winced, suddenly worried the weapon might discharge.

“What are you doing here, Jim?”

“What are we doing here? You got zombies roaming the streets of Hope Springs, and you want to know why
we’re
here?”

Miller sagged.

“Carter,” said Michelle, “I’ve seen them myself. It’s the real deal!”

“Carter, I’m no good to you locked up. Let me out.”

“You’re not going anywhere, Sheriff.” Crosby turned to Michelle. “And I can’t believe they put you up to this, Michelle. You and I are friends. I expected more from you than to join in this hysteria.”

“Let us show you, Carter,” said Scratch. “They’re out by Harrison Lake right now.”

Crosby shook his head. “You can keep repeating that lie as much as you like, but I’m not going to buy into it.” He let the barrel of the rifle droop like a spent cock.

“Carter,” said Miller. “Let’s go have a look. What if they are telling you the truth? What if there are zombies out in the woods and you do nothing?
You have a duty to protect your people.
The least you can do is to go and check this out. If Scratch says he’s found proof, believe it.”

Michelle took a step forward, ignoring the rifle pointing at her legs. “Come on, Carter. Take a look. You gotta believe your own eyes.”

“All right. I’ll have a look. Just to prove you wrong.”

“Good. Now please, go let Sheriff Miller out, and we can all go bag us some zombies.”

“Hey,” Martin called, “what about us?”

“Nobody is going anywhere,” Crosby said. “Jim, you can show me what you want to show me, but Sheriff Miller stays put until I figure this thing out.”

“Now wait a minute, Carter,” Scratch said. “We need her with us.”

Miller called out from the jail cell. “I’m safe, Scratch. I’ll be fine until you come back for me. Just make sure you
do
come back for me.”

“You know we will,” said Scratch. “Hang tight.”

Scratch backed away from the jailhouse steps. He waved his arm uphill, towards the lodge. “Let’s go.”

Crosby slammed and locked the door, leaving Miller alone in the cell with her thoughts.

The jail went silent. The air thickened and the atmosphere turned gloomy. A cloud crossed the sun outside. Miller turned away from the bars and sat down heavily on her cot. The springs complained beneath her. She dropped her head into her hands, exhausted.

“It looks like we got you all to ourselves, sweetheart.”

Martin.

Oh, shit,
thought Miller.
What am I going to do about these dumb assholes?

“Honey? I’m thinking we’ve got us some unfinished business.”

Miller was not happy. She wasn’t used to being on this side of the bars, but she knew the rules. She had no idea how long Crosby would have her locked up, so she was kind of the new fish in this jail. Martin was instinctively proving his status to the others. He’d clearly been inside before. Miller figured she was better off making a strong impression without wasting any more precious time.