The Hungry (Book 3): At the End of the World (4 page)

Safely back in her little cottage, Greta examined the money over and over again. She was no expert, but the bills passed every test she could conceive of.
Holy shit.
Right there in front of her, in neat little piles, sat forty thousand dollars in one-hundred-dollar bills. With that much money, Greta figured to be able to get out of Hope Springs forever. Hell, maybe run as far as the other side of the Mississippi without even stopping. Rumor had it the zombies hadn’t reached that far yet.

She put the money in plastic kitchen bags. She couldn’t have said why, but she didn’t want the bills to get dirty or wet. They felt like pets to her now.

Greta sat on the edge of her bed. She took several deep breaths. Her plan was simple. She’d wait until morning, make these silly people some breakfast, find some excuse to get them the hell out of the lodge, and then take off. Just go and leave her boyfriend Gunter and everyone else in Hope Springs behind. After all she’d done for him, if that ungrateful old bastard she’d been with was really so ready to abandon her, what did she have to hang around for?

Nervous energy coursed through her body, making her hands shake. The night wore on. Greta busied herself around the cottage, selecting things she’d need for the trip. She would need clothes, extra food, water, a hand gun and ammo, a picture of her dead husband and son… and, of course, that beautiful, beautiful stack of green bills.

But the more she thought about it, two new things occurred to her. One, why did she have to wait until morning? Why not make a run for it? And two, these fools had to have more money in that duffle bag. Maybe they had one hell of a lot more. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t have handed over the cash so easily. If Greta could get to St. Louis with forty thousand dollars, maybe she could get to Europe with a half a million. Whatever they still had stashed, more was always better.

No, Greta told herself. That was wrong, stealing their money was a sin, but try as she might she couldn’t get the idea of that extra cash out of her head. Even back when the satellite companies had stopped broadcasting regular TV and only played that ridiculous government propaganda, Greta knew it was time. She had to dump Hope Springs and light out for the East Coast. This was her big chance.

Greta licked her lips. She looked out her window up to the lodge. It was quiet. All the lights were out in the suites on the west side of the lodge, up where Jimmy and his lady-friend were staying. That didn’t mean much in the end—they could easily be soiling the sheets right now—so it was too dangerous to try anything when she could get caught. They had to sleep sometime. They looked tired, all of them. She needed patience.

And so she continued to pack and unpack and pack again. She even caught herself cleaning the cabin a couple of times and laughed at herself. Who in heaven’s name was she cleaning for? Jimmy? Them zombies? What difference would it make? If what they said on the short wave was true, then it would be a matter of weeks before the walking undead would be hiking the slopes of Hope Springs, maybe riding up and down on the ski lifts in awful holiday sweaters.

Screw ‘em,
Greta thought.
People can clean up after me for once.

Struck by a pang of conscience, Greta gingerly picked up the picture of her beloved husband and son. Her husband was buried a few miles away at the Baptist cemetery. Her son was at the bottom of the ocean, killed by an RPG launched by some stoned pirate off the coast of Somalia. There was nothing she could do for her son, Henry. He wasn’t coming back, zombies or not. But she began to wonder about Bill, her husband, dead these last fifteen years. Would he rest in peace? Nobody knew where the zombies were coming from. Maybe the dead were rising from their graves, and maybe she’d get a chance to see old Bill again. Greta considered that idea and decided maybe not. Still, she considered stopping by the graveyard on the way out of Hope Springs. At least she could say goodbye. She’d never be back this way again.

Greta was packed for good and ready to go before she knew it. She deliberately left her little laptop on the desk in her bedroom. Internet access had become intermittent the very day Nevada went away, and she had an icky feeling that the government was reading everyone’s email. She only corresponded with her sister Hannah in Hartford, Connecticut, but even those messages had started getting choppy, like someone was reading them and snipping out all the good gossip. So she’d find her sister and split. That bag had to contain a fortune. It would go a long way to getting them both the hell off the North American continent.

She looked up at the clock. It was exactly midnight. Greta felt like she was amped up on a whole pot of coffee. She couldn’t wait anymore. She took out her ring of keys, a large flashlight, and an old Ruger 9mm her husband had left her. As she turned the handle to the cabin door, she had one last pang of guilt. Turning hesitantly, she went to her filing cabinet and unlocked it. Greta pulled out a slim folder, and slipped out the papers inside. She picked up her favorite pen and quickly signed a document. Greta put it inside the folder again, and took that with her.

A moment later, she was walking through the light dusting of snow to the lodge. She didn’t bother to turn on the flashlight. She had been the caretaker of the Harrison Lake Sportsman’s Lodge for forty-five years—back to even before President Carter stayed there—and she knew the place better than she knew herself. She went to the admissions desk and dropped off the folder. She turned the flashlight on briefly, and scribbled a note on the front of the folder. Then she turned off the light and headed up the stairs in the dark.

That redheaded woman had carried the moneybag and taken it into her suite. That was the most likely place to look. She looked like a smart girl, but she’d also looked very, very tired.

Greta used her master key to open the door. She was careful to insert the key quietly, working hard not to make the tumbler pins click with the passage of the key. The door opened smoothly, and Greta left it open as she entered the room. She could see by the starlight that the bedroom door was open, but as long as she was quiet, no one would need to know she was there.

She covered the lens of the flashlight with her hand and turned it on. Her fingers made a red glow, hardly noticeable, but it was enough to see the bag of money sitting right on the coffee table. Greta tiptoed across the room. She knew every floorboard to avoid. She opened the bag, peeked inside, and felt around with her fingers. There were many more stacks of money inside, so many she couldn’t begin to count them all.

Greta’s pulse pounded in her ears. She pulled the Ruger out of her pocket and pointed it toward the bedroom door. If anyone—even Jimmy—came out of that door and discovered her, she would have to shoot them without hesitating. She would go to hell for it, but if burning in hell were the price of having a decent chance to get as far away from the zombies as she could, then that was a risk she was willing to take.

Nothing moved, including Greta. A clock ticked forward in the hallway. Outside an owl hooted. Greta took a deep breath. Eventually, she picked up the straps to the bag, and lifted it gingerly off the table.

Something—keys, maybe—slid off the top of the bag and onto the coffee table, making what seemed like an impossibly loud noise in the silence. Greta’s attention snapped back to the bedroom doorway. Her Ruger pointed shakily in that direction. Her breath caught in her throat and her pulse thumped in her ears.

Nothing moved in the darkness. Not a sound came from the bedroom. Maybe Jimmy’s lady-friend was spending the night in his suite. If that was the case, then Greta had better move her keister and get the money somewhere safe. If they woke up to get it on again she’d get caught, sure as shit.

Greta risked turning on the flashlight once more, and searched for the source of that clattering sound. When she saw what it was, she was almost as happy as when she’d wrapped her hands around the handle of the moneybag.

It was a set of car keys.

The keys to the minivan. The one Jimmy and his friends had arrived in.

Greta knew she was much more likely to make it with the minivan than if she took that old Harley. The world had changed. Everyone was out for themselves. Quickly, Greta scooped up the keys and the moneybag, and headed for the hall. Nothing opposed her as she stepped onto the landing and closed the door behind her. Barely suppressing a giggle over her triumph, she headed downstairs, money in hand. She moved faster and faster as she left the others behind.

Once outside the lodge, she opened the minivan door and tossed the moneybag inside. She went back into her cottage, where she had left her belongings, and gathered them up. Greta put them in the minivan as well. She opened the driver’s side door and sat down. She turned the key halfway and checked the gas. There was a quarter tank left, according to the gauge. That would have to do. Maybe she could coast most of the way down the mountain to save fuel.

Greta decided not to get all clever and roll the minivan down the hill before starting it up. Too many things could go wrong in the dark if she didn’t have power. If the engine turned over right away, she could be out of there before those poor schmucks even woke up and knew what was going on. She started the minivan, it fired up at once. Greta laughed and backed out onto the road.

She let out a whoop as she headed through the middle of Hope Springs. She had done it. She had the minivan, the money, and a chance to survive. By the time Jimmy or anyone else knew to look for her, she would already be two states away.

The night closed in. The headlights chased the gloom away. Greta did have one stop first. The Baptist cemetery was only ten minutes down the mountain. She would stop, say goodbye to Bill one last time, and then head for Connecticut. A full moon peeked out from behind the clouds. It made the turnoff easy to spot.

She stopped the minivan just outside the small graveyard, but left the lights on so she could see. Bill’s gravestone wasn’t too far from the gate, and she used her flashlight to get her the fifty or so steps to the grave. The stones were beautiful in the moonlight. They made her sad. She knew so many of the names.

Greta stopped in front of the gravestone. “Bill, I’m sorry to do this to you, darling, but I have to go. It ain’t the world you left anymore, and if I want to stay this side of the grave, it’s time for me to leave. I just had to stop and say I love you, and I’ll miss you always.”

She turned to go, but stopped. Guilt rose up again. Greta sighed. She had one last thing left to say. “I also need to tell you I’m sorry. I wasn’t faithful to you. I’ve cheated. It was with Old Gunter…”

An owl mocked her. A lone coyote mourned. Greta wiped her face on her sleeve and the flashlight beam danced around. “I hope you can forgive me.”

Having said her piece, Greta played the flashlight across the gravestone one more time. It was time to go. She heard a noise. Something in her peripheral vision moved.

Greta froze. The sound had come from directly behind Bill’s old headstone. Her mind told her to turn and run for the minivan. In spite of herself, she drew the Ruger and pointed it at the tree line.

“Who’s there?” Greta demanded. She was surprised how strong her voice sounded. There was someone out there, standing in the pines, by that large rock the local kids liked to play on. He moved in her direction, one step at a time.
My God.

The man walked closer, with his hands in plain sight. He wasn’t armed.

Greta almost fired, but in the end she couldn’t do that without at least asking.

“Bill? Is that you?”

Greta brought the flashlight up and played it on the face of her visitor.

She screamed.

It wasn’t Bill.