The Hungry (Book 3): At the End of the World (6 page)

“Nope. Never seen ‘em before,” Wesley said. He sniffed from the cold.

“What about the horses?”

“Those are Harrison brands, for sure. They had to have come from the lodge. You reckon ol’ Greta’s got some company?”

Martin LaGrange kept the scope trained on the two riders in the distance, the crosshairs playing over their bodies like a lover’s caress. One of them, the redheaded woman, had the word SHERIFF written across her jacket and what appeared to be a genuine uniform patch on her arm. Still, since she was wearing blue jeans and shit-kickers, the chances of her real being law enforcement seemed pretty low. She’d probably fucked or killed some genuine pig for it. Regardless, hot damn if she wasn’t the best looking woman to come through Hope Springs in a long time. Martin made up his mind right then and there. He was going to have to tear him off a piece of that.

The other rider wasn’t going to be a problem. Sure, he was big, and Martin could see some tattoos under his torn sleeves, but tattoos didn’t mean shit. Hell, any sissy could get himself a tattoo these days. The rider had “bad-ass” written all over him, but that long hair sure wouldn’t do him any good in a fight—and besides, Martin had no intention of letting the dude even get close enough to take a swing. He was one quick squeeze of the trigger away from being a non-issue, though Martin also knew that Constable Crosby didn’t take kindly to folks getting shot without permission. Martin had other ideas for that one, and for the woman, too.

“They got weapons. What are we gonna do with ‘em?” Wesley was all nervous energy and pimples but the kid could shoot straight and true and took orders well. So Martin put up with him.

“I say we blow ‘em out of the saddle, take the horses back to camp. Ain’t no one gonna miss a couple of strangers. Not nowadays.”

Martin didn’t take his eye away from the scope. “Since when the fuck did you get a vote, Brent?” He spoke quietly and with authority. Brent was a pain in the ass, a fountain of talk and bluster, but Martin knew he could count on the short, stocky man when the shit came down. If he could only get him to shut up.

“I got a bead on the hippie,” Brent babbled. “Betcha I could hit him square in the left eye from here. He can’t be more than a couple hundred feet away. I got him for sure.” Brent paused for breath. “No way I could miss him, no way. Come on, Martin. Let’s go for it. Let me take the shot. In a minute they’re going to be too close and it won’t be any kind of challenge.”

“Quit your yammering, Brent.” Martin looked up. He pointed to a stand of pine a short ways off. “You and Wes go take up a position behind those trees and wait for me to signal to you. Nobody shoots unless I say so. We’re going to have a little interview with these nice folks. Let’s keep it friendly. Go.”

The two men went. They were quiet, stayed low. They knew their jobs. Martin continued to watch as the two newcomers approached. He studied them, this time without the assistance of the sniper scope. They were talking about God knows what. He could hear their voices from where he waited in the brush. The woman reached out and held the man’s hand for a moment before the horses pulled apart. Martin could see a big silver handgun in a holster on the woman’s hip, and there was a rifle next to the man’s leg. They were armed and these were unusual times. So Martin was going to keep it light and easy, at least at the beginning.

Martin made his way to an opening in the trees. He watched their approach. He didn’t want to appear suddenly from the brush, or do anything that would alarm them unnecessarily. The trail down to the village went by where he was standing, so it was only a matter of a minute or two before they rode right past him. There was nothing to do now but wait. Martin took a quick look to the right. The trees ended maybe fifty yards to the north, and he could see a couple of people out on foot. No one drove much these days, gas being available only in Beaufort, about twenty minutes away, and it seemed likely pretty soon fuel wouldn’t be available there either. None of the people from the village were looking in his direction at the moment, but that didn’t mean that he couldn’t be seen. Martin realized that he’d have to get these strangers off the trail, and pretty damned quick, if he were to expect any privacy for his little interview.

When the two riders were about fifteen yards away, Martin stepped out into the open. “Hey, there!” he said, waving and smiling. The rifle he carried was draped over his arm, pointed at the ground.
Light and friendly,
Martin reminded himself.

Both riders stiffened, but neither reached for a weapon.

“Howdy,” said the red-haired woman. She shifted in the Sheriff’s jacket. Her tone was friendly, but her expression was wary. She reigned in her horse and stopped maybe 10 feet away. Her hand drifted close to her weapon. The man with her said nothing.

“I ain’t seen you around here before.” Martin gradually stepped forward. “Are you staying up at the lodge?”

The woman took a quick look at the big man, who had now stopped his horse next to hers. “Something like that. What can we do for you?”

“Well, it’s just that we don’t get a lot of strangers around here. With everything going on these days, it’s nice to know who’s here and who’s not. You know what I’m saying?”

The long-haired man spoke for the first time. “Sure. You can’t be too careful, know what I’m saying?” He stared at Martin with barely guarded hostility. The woman shot him a look then turned back to face Martin.

Martin stepped forward, shifting the rifle to his other arm, and put out his hand. “My handle’s Martin. Martin LaGrange.” Reluctantly, the woman reached down from the horse and shook his hand.

“I’m Sheriff Penny Miller. This here’s Scratch,” she said, hooking a thumb over her shoulder.

“Sheriff, huh?” Martin said. He tried to seem impressed. “Your arm patch says Flat Rock, Nevada. Lady, I hear Nevada ain’t even there anymore. You must be pretty lucky to still be around.”

“Luck was part of it.” The woman shifted in her saddle. Her facial expression changed, maybe relaxed a tad. “Maybe you can answer a question. We’re headed into the village to get some supplies. You reckon you could point us in the right direction to someone we can barter with?”

“Not much left in the village,” Martin lied. “Ain’t been any kind of a delivery for about two weeks.” Martin’s mouth was dry, but he resisted the urge to lick his lips. “On the other hand, my boys and me, we got more than enough supplies. What all were you looking for? Maybe we can make us a trade.”

“Your boys?” asked the red-haired woman. She’d tensed up again.

“Yep.” Martin waived to Wesley and Brent, who appeared as if from nowhere. The bad ass stiffened in the saddle but still didn’t reach for his weapon.

“Come on over, boys,” called Martin, smiling and waving. “They’re safe.”

The two men came out from behind the trees, rifles lowered like Martin’s. They walked fast and stood on either side of the two mounted strangers. They smiled; Brent friendly and easy, Wesley maybe a bit too tense. The big stranger was squinting a bit, clearly considering his options. Before Miller and her companion could react further, Martin said, “Our camp is only a little ways away. If you want to follow us, we can probably find something we can trade for.”

“You know what,” Miller said, “we appreciate the offer, but I think we’d be better off seeing what’s in the village.” She rested her hand on her right thigh, only inches from her gun. “I’m sure you understand.”

That was good enough for Martin. He snapped his wrist, bringing the rifle up to bear on the woman, moving faster than she could reach for her gun. Immediately Wesley and Brent did the same. Both of them focused on the big man with the tattoos without being told. They were clearly in charge. The situation had changed in an instant.

“Sorry, Sheriff, but I gotta insist,” Martin said. “Why don’t you just drop that shiny gun on the ground, and then we can talk civil. You too, partner, slow and easy.”

Martin watched both of the strangers carefully as they in turn checked out the other two men and everyone’s position. These two had been in some serious scrapes together. The woman was clearly calculating her chances. The man was hanging back but likely to back her play, whatever it was, no matter what.

“Whatever you’re thinking, let it go,” Martin said. “I assure you, you won’t enjoy what happens next if you don’t do what I say. Give me your guns.”

Miller made up her mind. “I’m an officer of the law. I’m not going to relinquish my weapon.”

Martin was surprised by this, but then realized he shouldn’t have been. Constable Crosby was the same fucking way. He sighed and said, “Then unless you’re bulletproof, you’re dead.”

Things kind of froze for a few seconds.

The woman sagged a bit, as if she’d deflated. She showed Martin two fingers, and slowly slipped the revolver out of its holster and dropped it at her horse’s feet. Following her lead, the man pulled the rifle from its sleeve and handed it to Brent, who stood covering them from the left. Brent also reached down and picked up the revolver from the half-frozen ground. Wes kept the man covered.

“That’s right,” said Martin. “Well done, lady. Now how ‘bout you come down here one at a time, to where we can talk neighborly.”

Slowly, each of the strangers dismounted. The Sheriff looked pretty damned pissed. God, she was beautiful. Her hair fell in crimson cascades down her shoulders, and her face was amazing. Unlike a lot of women in Hope Springs, she didn’t resemble her horse, not by a long shot. Martin thought that she didn’t have much in the way of tits, but she had on her a set of hips that made his mouth water. He couldn’t help but picture her bent over a log somewhere—somewhere nearby, if he had something to say about it. He could hear her squealing and moaning.

“What do you want from us?” asked the Sheriff. She seemed to be reading his mind. Her eyes were cold as creek water.

“There’s a lot of rumors going around nowadays,” Martin said soothingly. “They say that the sick and the wounded, they can die and turn on you.”

The Sheriff tensed up. Martin must have hit a nerve. He decided to press onward. “See, you all know something about the plague, don’t you? You’ve seen what it can do to a person, am I right, or am I right?”

The Sheriff looked down and then glanced up at the big man. “So?”

“So we ain’t got the plague here in Hope Springs,” Martin said. “Not yet. Not unless you brought it up here with you. Did you?”

The big man said, “Look, jackass…”

Brent earned his pay. He shoved the man back with the barrel of his rifle. “Shut up while Mr. Martin is talking.”

“We got no choice but to be sure.” Martin licked his lips, already savoring what was to come next. This was delicious. He could already feel his boner pressing against his pants. “Strip down, both of you.”

“Say that again?” The Sheriff was angry now, and looked even more beautiful than when Martin had first spotted her. Her cheeks were pink. He wanted to see
all
of her pink.

“Take off your clothes,” Martin said slowly. “Now.”

“Now wait a damned minute!” The man was shouting. “We ain’t sick!”

Martin turned to Brent. “Our guest here doesn’t know how to behave himself. Take him back up the path a ways, check him out and hold him there. See, the Sheriff here is a woman, and she needs her privacy.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” The man looked at Brent and Wesley, again calculating the distance between him and them. Martin felt a twinge of anxiety. He was a tough looking motherfucker, no doubt about it. Have to double tap him to be sure. His finger tightened on the trigger in anticipation.

The Sheriff sensed that reaction. “Scratch, you ain’t going to be any good to me dead. This guy’s no Father Abraham, you know? I think I can handle him. Play nice and everything will be all right.”

Father Abraham? Martin frowned at the reference. Had that been some kind of code between them?

The man downshifted inside. He nodded, his eyes quietly searching the woods. “Where’s Terrill Lee when you need him?”

Martin turned and looked over his shoulder. Whatever they had been looking at was gone. Or maybe they had been bluffing the whole time. Either way, the exchange reminded Martin that time was short.

“That’s enough! Get him the fuck out of here.”

Brent pushed the man up the slope, and Wesley led the horses away. The three of them turned behind a group of boulders and vanished from sight. Some crows cawed, as if mocking the humans below, and a dog barked in the distance. A chill wind rose up and moaned through the nearby boulders.

Martin pointed at the woman with the barrel of his rifle. “Take off that jacket, lady. You ain’t a Sheriff up here.”

Surprisingly, the woman submitted. She slowly unzipped the jacket, opening it up as if for Martin to see. He stared at her chest for a long moment. He had been wrong about her tits. They rocked.

“Now unbutton that shirt.”

The woman stared directly at him, holding his gaze. She began unbuttoning her shirt. Martin could feel the blood pulse in his ears. He started looking around for a suitable log to bend her over. Life was good.

The sound of a hammer being cocked very close to his ear brought Martin back to reality. He stiffened, but this time not in a good way. Something cold and very hard poked him in the back of the skull. Martin felt his bowels loosen and for a terrifying moment thought he was about to crap his pants right there in front of the lady Sheriff.

“Strip show’s over.” A male voice came from directly behind Martin. “Drop the weapon.”

Martin did.

“Put your hands on your head.”

Martin complied. He felt a strong hand wrench his hand behind his back, and snap a cuff on his wrist. A moment later, the other hand was cuffed too.

“Now shut up. Not a word until I tell you to talk.”