The Hungry (Book 3): At the End of the World (9 page)

“Wait!” Michelle screamed. She pinwheeled her arms to indicate the carnage lying all around the store. “What about that dead body and this damn mess here? What about my missing merchandise?”

“I’m sorry, Michelle,” Crosby said. “I am going to have to get the Larimer Sheriff in on this one. Look, I need you to lock up for right now and just go home. We’ll get all this squared away soon, I promise.”

“But…”

“Do it. Right now, as you can see, I’ve got my hands full.” Crosby took Miller by the arm and walked her out the door. Miller threw one stern look back over her left shoulder, as if to order Scratch to behave himself. She allowed herself to be led outside without a struggle.

Scratch and Michelle stood in the middle of the empty store. Dry goods, canned goods, boxes, and bottles lay strewn everywhere, much of it now covered with shards of bone and a light mist of blood and brain matter. Michelle surveyed the room, then looked down at her clothes. Her blue shirt was freckled with red dots—Greta’s blood. Her face went pale. She kept staring at Greta’s corpse. Scratch, on the other hand, couldn’t take his eyes off of Michelle. It had been a long, long time but dozens of memories—many of them sensual—came flooding back.

“Oh, God,” Michelle said. She spoke with despair in her voice. “What am I going to do now?”

Scratch spoke softly, soothingly. “We’re going to do what Carter said. I’ll help you. Lock up tight and go on home. There’s nothing you can do here now. He’s dead wrong, but Crosby thinks it’s a crime scene.”

“You say that like it isn’t? Jesus. Look at this place, blood everywhere!” Michelle shouted. Scratch had almost forgotten how so damned pretty she looked when she was pissed off. “My store
is
a crime scene. All of my stock is gone, and I don’t have enough money to last a week. How the fuck am I going to feed
my
kids now? I’m ruined, and it’s all because of that stupid bitch Sheriff from nowhere.”

Scratch could feel the heat rise in his face. “She saved your life and the lives of everyone in this store. That’s a zombie. You have no idea what one of those things can do.”

“Things?”

“Michelle, I’ve seen them in action way too often. If Penny hadn’t shot Greta, you’d all be dead soon. Well, sort of dead and wandering around the village, groaning and slobbering and waiting for Halloween to come around so you’d look all normal again.”

“Wait. One of those
things?
That was a person,” she said, waving at the body. “I knew her. That was Greta.”

“No, it wasn’t, not anymore. She’d turned into one of them for sure.”

“Fuck, Jim! Not you, too, with this zombie nonsense. That’s just talk radio bullshit. This is real life. Look at this place! Look at me!”

Scratch opened his mouth to respond, but closed it again. She knew his name. He paused, staring hard at Michelle. He felt his features darken. “Wait. You know who I am?”

“Of course I do. I recognized you the minute I saw you. But you sure picked a lousy fucking way to reintroduce yourself.”

“Look,” Scratch said, thinking furiously, “we need to get out of here. I gotta get back to the lodge and let my friends know what’s happened, and then we gotta figure out how to get Penny out of jail.”

“She belongs in jail.”

“Trust me, she doesn’t, and we’re all going to need her help to stay breathing. Michelle, listen to me. You should go home and board up your house. If you got any weapons, I’d suggest you break them out, too.”

“Will you tell me exactly what is going on around here?”

Scratch grabbed her shoulder and stared into her eyes. He summoned up his most sincere look. “It’s like this. Hope Springs is about to be buried under a shitload of nasty, dead as a Novocain stabbed prick, died in the wool, snot ugly, bad-assed, mega-hungry, real life, totally undead zombies.”

Michelle’s face twisted into a scowl. “No. We’re all sick of hearing about these damned zombies. There’s no such thing. It’s impossible. You’re either dead or you aren’t.”

“You’re wrong,” Scratch said. “I’ve seen and lived to tell.”

“Maybe it’s what you thought you saw, but there are no zombies.” Michelle ran her hands through her red hair. “That’s just one of the hysterical bullshit excuses that everyone down below is using to rape me for higher prices. And now Greta is dead and I’m out of business because of it.”

Some people outside ran by, feet thumping on the sidewalk, voices arguing. Scratch and Michelle looked out and saw them through the front window. There was a husband, carrying two cardboard boxes and a hunting rifle. Beside him trotted a squat woman and two young girls. They were all carrying grocery bags full of water bottles and food.

“Michelle,” Scratch said urgently. “It’s time to go. Lock up or don’t. It won’t matter either way in a day or two, trust me. But you don’t want to be here. Please. Get out of the village. Go home and secure your kids. Trust me on this, take my word on it, the shit has officially hit the fan. You gotta believe me.”

Scratch gently put his hand out. He took charge. She was too shaken to think straight. Scratch took Michelle’s arm. He led her past the sprawled corpse once known as Greta. Took her past the goods covered with scattered gore and towards the front door. He helped her close and double lock the front door. Her business was closed, likely forever. His heart went out to her. She’d lost everything. They stood staring at each other.

“Jim…?”

“Don’t talk. Move.”

The air went out of Michelle. Reluctantly, she allowed Scratch to take her the rest of the way outside and into the daylight. She paused for a moment, blinking furiously, but seemed to decide not to turn around and look back. Townspeople were scattered everywhere, loading up trucks and spinning wheels in the ice and mud as they left Hope Springs. Scratch watched Michelle carefully. Their boots crunched down on the thin veneer of ice coating the cracked sidewalk.

Scratch spotted their old minivan, the one Greta had stolen. It was parked sideways on the corner, door open. A long blood trail led from it, up the steps and all the way to the now shuttered store.

“My truck is this way,” Michelle said.

“Good,” Scratch said, gently. “Go home. I’m sorry I didn’t have the opportunity to say a proper hello after all these years, but right now I have to get back up to the lodge. Just like Sheriff Miller said, I need to warn my friends about what’s coming. We all knew it would catch up to us eventually, just not this soon.”

Scratch went to the minivan and pulled the back door open. The moneybag was there. He opened it up. A few stray bills were there, covered in mud and something that looked a lot like congealed blood. The keys were nowhere to be found. It was useless. They could be anywhere.

He stepped back, exasperated. Scratch had turned and was heading back to where the horses were tied up when he noticed that Michelle was still standing there, waiting for him. “I thought you were going home.”

“Jim,” said Michelle, meeting his eyes, “if the world really is going to hell right now, there’s something you should know.”

“What?”

“Please come with me. This won’t take long.”

Scratch figured the horses were tied up out of sight enough to risk leaving them for a spell. He followed Michelle, wondering what was on her mind. The little village quieted down as most of the occupants had already fled for their lives.

They reached Michelle’s dark green SUV. Scratch registered that it had a sticker on the back, one of those things with the outlines of a mother and her kids. No dad.

Michelle opened the doors to the vehicle. “Get in. I need to show you something. It’s important.”

“Michelle, we really don’t have time for this. Please just tell me what’s going on.”

“Yes, you
do
have time for this,” she said firmly, though he noticed that her hands were shaking. They hadn’t been before. “I’ll make it quick. Ten minutes tops and you’re on your way back to your friends. Get in.”

Scratch felt his pulse quicken. His mind flew up the mountain to the lodge, worrying about Terrill Lee and Sheppard, then back down to the jail with deep concern for Miller’s safety. Scratch was frustrated. Michelle was clearly serious as a stroke. He’d seldom felt so torn. “Look, either tell me now or don’t. One way or the other, I’m going.”

“Fine. I’ll tell you. I want you to meet your son.”

Scratch felt his knees buckle. The maniacal world seemed far away. “Wait. My…?”

“He’s yours, from all those years ago.”

“But…” Scratch closed his eyes. He suddenly remembered their last night together, the heat of it all. The way they had been together before he’d left for good. He opened his eyes again. No matter what kind of mental gymnastics he went through, he couldn’t think of a single reason not to believe Michelle.

“His name is James Franklin Bowen. Junior.”

Michelle opened the door to the SUV. She slid inside and sat stiff in the driver’s seat. “Like I said, if the world is going to come crashing down then you two should at least meet. Now get in. Ten minutes and I’ll drive you back.”

Scratch couldn’t think of anything else to do. He got in the truck. “Michelle,” he said, after a long moment, “I can’t get my head around this.”

Michelle turned to look at him. She gave a short, sharp laugh. “Let me get this straight. You believe in zombies but you don’t think a young woman could get pregnant? After the things we did? Maybe your memory has gone bad, but you had more than enough opportunities to seal that particular deal.”

Scratch stared out the front window as they headed up a steep slope. “I never even considered this might have happened. I had no idea.”

Michelle drove off. They lurched through a mud puddle. Pine trees passed by the tinted windows like sentries standing watch. “No idea? That’s kind of hard to believe. I always figured you had a pretty good idea I was knocked up. In fact, you and your brother took off right before my father could track you down. Even your parents knew about this. All you had to do was give them a call somewhere along the way, and they would have told you.”

Michelle turned down a long side street and into an alley. Scratch shook his head slowly. “I wasn’t talking to my parents when I left. And the couple of times we spoke before they both up and died in that wreck, they didn’t choose to bring anything up. I guess they figured I was a bad apple so why bother.”

Michelle drove to the end of the alley and onto a quiet street near the edge of the tiny mountain village. Scratch could feel her tension growing. True to her word, they were only a few blocks from the horses.

“We’re here,” she said.

The SUV rolled forward a few more yards. They finally stopped outside a worn but clean little house on a large piece of well-kept property. The house was brown with white trim, and several large green trees framed it against the cloudy blue sky. Snow had piled up in the rain gutters and the yard was sparkling with frost. Someone had begun to string Christmas lights around the porch. The job was unfinished.

“Try to make a good impression, Jim.”

Scratch stepped out of the truck and into a small patch of clear, un-melted ice. He swallowed dryly, wishing for a couple of beers to take away both his thirst and a steadily growing sense of anxiety. Turns out zombies frightened him far less than the thought of being a father. “What am I supposed to say?”

Michelle came around the front of the SUV. “You’re a smart guy, Jim. You’ll figure it out. He calls himself Jimmy, like you used to. I suggest you start by saying hello, and then make it up from there.”

Michelle led Scratch up the concrete steps. The hinges squealed. She went into the kitchen and took off her bloodied long-sleeved shirt. Her t-shirt was untouched by the blood. Michelle washed her hands obsessively for about two minutes before she was satisfied.

As she dried her hands, she shouted, “Jimmy, Lex, I’m home! There’s someone I want you to meet.”

“Who’s Lex?” Scratch asked weakly, almost as an aside.

“My other son,” Michelle said simply. She didn’t offer anything else.

The living room was sparsely furnished with restored antiques. It had one small television and was filled with toys. Loud rap music played from another room. Eventually, two boys appeared from the back of the house. They strolled down the hallway that led from the kitchen. One was about fifteen years old, and the other, who was smiling brightly, was probably still around eight.

“Who’s this winner, Mom?” asked the older boy. “We got ourselves another new boyfriend?”

Scratch glanced at Michelle. He wondered what that said about her. The brief flash of judgment wasn’t pretty, but it gave him some relief from the self-loathing he’d been experiencing. Unfortunately, the plus didn’t last for long.

“Not exactly, sweetheart,” Michelle said, without a trace of irony. “This one is more like an
old
boyfriend.” Michelle turned to Scratch and scorched him with her gaze. “Why don’t you formally introduce yourself?”

Scratch wiped his sweaty palm on his jeans and put it out to shake hands. “Hey, kid. I’m Scratch.”

Michelle cleared her throat. “Jimmy, this man’s name is Jim Bowen. I’m going to get right to the point. He’s your father.”

The faint rap music faded into something a little more adult-contemporary. A clock ticked in the quiet living room. Scratch kept his hand out. The little boy stepped back. Jimmy made no move to take Scratch’s proffered hand. He looked at Scratch for a long time. “You’ve got to be kidding me.
He’s
my father? Jesus, Mom, he’s an old biker or something. You couldn’t have done any better than this?”

Scratch was astounded to hear his own voice bark, “Hey, you don’t talk to your mother that way!”

“I don’t have time for this shit,” Jimmy said. He turned to leave.

“Jimmy, stay here,” Michelle ordered.

After a moment, Jimmy stopped. Then he turned back.