The Hungry (Book 3): At the End of the World (19 page)

“You know, Sheriff,” Crosby said conversationally as they trudged across the frosted ground back to the lodge. “I haven’t decided if I should bless you or curse you for showing up in my little village. You and Sheppard obviously know more than you are saying about the zombie plague. It’s like a puzzle that I have to tease out of you or one of those scrambled-letter cryptograms that I play online. I’ve found the first few letters of the answer to our zombie problems, but the real solution is still eluding me. Your continued comfort and safety are going to depend on how many letters you still have locked away.”

“You’re out of your goddamned mind if you think we’re going to help you with anything, Carter,” said Scratch. “We’ve dealt with some batshit crazy power-hungry fucks before you, and we didn’t help them, neither.”

“Jim, you’ve got me wrong. I’m not batshit crazy, and I’m not power-hungry. I’m just trying to do my job.”

“And what’s that? Kidnapping?” Scratch struggled against the nylon cable ties that bound his hands. He wasn’t interested in his old friend’s new agenda. He just wanted to break free to snap his neck.

“No, no,” Crosby said. “The Stars and Stripes Brigade is an extra-territorial peacekeeping force. Kind of like the United Nations, if you catch my drift. I’m still the constable of Hope Springs, and the citizens are still my responsibility, but we’ve come up against an enemy that we’ve never encountered before. You people know how to fight them. You know their weaknesses. I can’t do my job without learning what you know.”

Scratch looked at Penny. She was fuming, but remained silent. Scratch hoped she was coming up with a plan to get them the hell out of this.

Then Sheppard said, “We’ve already told you what you need to know, Crosby.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But you sure as hell didn’t tell me everything
you
know about this. For example, Karl, how do you know so much about the virus? I know you’re like a doctor or something, but where did you pick up all that mitochondria crap?”

Sheppard did not respond.

Crosby looked like he was about to continue, but then his face contorted. His speech was interrupted by a loud sneeze. Abruptly, his demeanor changed from friendly and in control to angry and frightened. “Karl, you’re my only link to a cure. I need it, and I need it now. So you better find your fucking tongue, or I swear, I’ll make the other batshit-crazy, power-hungry fucks that you’ve encountered look like the PTA.”

Crosby took Sheppard by the arm. “I don’t have time for this. Martin, Sheppard and I will be in the cottage. The women are yours to play with. Just remember to pace yourself. You’re still on duty.”

“Yes, sir,” said Martin. He eyed Miller with a wicked leer. Scratch couldn’t figure a way to stop him. Yet.

“Take Jim and the boys and put them somewhere for the moment. I’ll come talk to them later.” He pulled on Sheppard, setting off ahead.

“Sir, we got a problem,” said the survivalist called Brent. “There’s some of those zombie freaks in that clump of trees between us and the lodge.”

“So, shoot them,” Crosby said. “Hit them in the head, and don’t miss. And they work in threes. Don’t let the third one catch you off guard.”

“Sir,” Brent said. “We don’t know where they are. None of the guys are exactly jumping up and down to volunteer to go out looking for them.”

The other four men nodded vigorously in agreement.

Crosby sighed. He turned to Martin. “Deal with this,” he said. He turned to one of his men. “Come on, we’re taking the long way.” Dragging Sheppard, he headed off in another direction.

For his part, Scratch watched Martin closely. He seemed on the verge of ordering one of his men to do something stupid. Martin’s eyes fell on Lex.

“Throw the brat in there,” Martin said. “He might as well be good for something other than crying and pissing himself.”

Immediately, everyone started screaming objections. Martin cut loose with a few rounds. Things got quiet.

“Shut up!” Martin turned to his men. “You heard me. Throw the boy in.”

Brent looked stricken, but he didn’t argue. He picked up Lex by one arm and the back of his pants, and dragged him toward the stand of trees. He swung Lex backwards, set his legs and got ready to hurl the small boy into the gap between the pines.

“No!” Brandy broke away from her guard. She ran, hands bound, to stop Brent. Seeing that, Martin aimed the machine gun, and fired. The bullet struck Brandy in the back of her thigh. She went down, face first into the frost and snow. Blood pooled by her wounded leg.

“Looks like we got us a volunteer,” Martin said. He was sneering. “Bring the boy back, and put her in there instead.”

Brent, still holding Lex by the pants, walked him back to the group of prisoners. He went to where Brandy lay crying and bleeding in the snow. He stood her up, dragged her to the tree line, and pushed her in. They watched in horror as Brandy fell to the ground, unable to stand. She could just barely be seen through the trees. Her sobbing nearly obscured her voice, but she managed one sentence. “Lynn, Jimmy, Lex, I love you!”

“Oh, God.” Lynn sobbed and pulled at her restraints. Lex wailed. Scratch growled. Jimmy just looked stricken.

A moment later, they heard the herd approaching.

“Dinner time!” said Brent. He seemed to be enjoying the show, or at least doing his best to appear jaded. Brandy saw the creatures coming and crawled through the snow to get away. The zombies fell on her as one, biting and chewing and slobbering. Brandy screamed in panic and pain.

“Should we shoot them, boss?” asked Brent.

Martin stood still. His jaw had dropped open. Scratch watched the man, his face dark with rage. Miller couldn’t tell if Martin was enjoying the spectacle or was horrified by it. He turned to Scratch, ignoring Miller and Lynn. “They work in threes, right? How long before we know there aren’t more of them?”

“You’re out of your fucking mind, Martin! Shoot them!”

Brandy screamed again.

Martin was still for a moment. Then he nodded. “Do it.”

The other survivalists seemed relieved to be cut loose. They lowered their weapons and fired into the four figures, rendering them to bloody goo.

Brent moved forward.

“Hold your position, Brent,” said Martin.

There was movement in the trees. It was Brandy. She was still alive. No, she wasn’t. She was turning. Scratch could hear her grunting softly.
Uhh-huuhh.

“You unbelievable bastard,” said Miller. “Put that poor girl out of her misery.”

“You aren’t the one giving orders here,” Martin said with a smirk. He turned to the four remaining survivalists. He waved and ordered them forward.

The men, Brent particularly, looked scared shitless. They entered the trees slowly and carefully, the snow powdering around their boots. Frost crunched beneath the weight of their bodies. A razor-sharp cold wind cut through the pine forest. Watching, Miller could see that the men were terrified and that their attention was entirely focused on looking for zombies. Scratch stared at Miller. She hoped she saw the same thing. Scratch and Miller both waited for the right time.

The men moved forward. They walked by the mess that had once been zombies. Poor Brandy was there, and one of the men carefully shined his flashlight on her face. Her eyes were egg white. She reached out for them, grunting with hunger, but she was shredded just below the ribcage. She didn’t offer much of a threat. The men gathered around her, horrified and fascinated.

The survivalists were still virgins when it came to zombies. Their full attention remained on the undead thing that had once been Brandy.

It was time. Scratch spun and kicked his guard in the balls. He was sick of being taken prisoner again and again, and took out his anger and frustration on the next guard, the one covering Lynn.

“Scratch!” shouted Miller.

He stopped kicking, and turned to look.

Martin had his pistol to Miller’s head. “Knock that shit off, or your girlfriend is dead!”

Scratch stopped. He was in a rage, and wanted to tear Martin’s head off and piss down his throat, but there were too many of them, all armed, and he couldn’t possibly take them all with his hands bound. He watched angrily as his guard found his feet and pointed his weapon at Scratch. The guard swung the butt of his assault rifle around, and slammed it into Scratch’s head.

Scratch groaned and stumbled, but did not fall.

“Are you done yet?” asked Martin. The gun still to Miller’s head.

“Fuck you, Skeezix,” said Scratch, but he was done. The opportunity was gone.

In the woods, one of the men shot Brandy in the brain.

The guard pushed Scratch, and they headed back to the lodge.