The Hungry (12 page)

Those eyes. So empty…

Nothing left in there but a terrible hunger.

The moment spun away like a dust devil twirling on the hardpan. The little girl pulled at her chains, gnashing her bared teeth, whimpering piteously. She strained to reach Miller. Her dead eyes seemed infinitely sad, and that moment was enough to break Miller's heart.
Sorry, baby.
She wished she had a gun to just put these three poor fucks out of their misery.

The truck sped on. No one would look at her.

Miller examined the man. He wore a bloodstained white coat and scrubs. Some kind of a doctor, or maybe a lab worker. Miller peered at what looked like a name embroidered on his coat, but she couldn't see through the gore and splatter. Had he been in the emergency room when the first victims came in? Somewhere trying to patch one of them up? He was even more emaciated than the woman, just a walking skeleton. His eyes were sunken, his grey-green skin practically mummified. Still, the hollow man pulled at his chains and moaned.
Guess we can now quit arguing over the state of the healthcare industry.

Miller turned to the soldiers. Her gaze roamed over them. None of them would look back. It was as if she were already dead, or perhaps on the way to some kind of horrific experimentation they did not even choose to think about. Was she already a zombie herself, and just didn't know it yet? Miller sought the eyes of one soldier in particular. Corporal Wells. It clicked. She was sure now. He was the son of her dead deputy. They'd met a couple of times over the years. Yet Wells was pretending he didn't know her. Fair enough. He must have his reasons. But how could she tell him what he needed to know…?

RRRrrrrrip.
A tearing sound. Movement caught Miller's attention. She looked just in time to see the dead man's arm come away from his shoulder out of the sleeve of his white lab coat. He then pulled at his other wrist, which was still chained to the truck. That hand came off with an audible
pop
. And then Doc Zombie fell upon the closest living person, a private who sat stunned though his weapon remained at the ready. The poor kid didn't have enough presence of mind to shoot. He screamed when the thing bit him on the face. The chomping sounds were disgusting. They kind of thrashed and went still. His blood pooled at his feet.

Miller ducked down as the other Guardsmen found their trigger fingers. They immediately unleashed a hell storm of bullets. Both Doc Zombie and the private were blown to hamburger, rendered unrecognizable by the gunfire in a matter of seconds. Miller stayed low, hoping that these undertrained motherfuckers didn't go wild and take themselves and their prisoners out at the same time.

As the last bullets were fired, the truck swerved violently to the left.
Uh oh.
At the speed they were going, it took less than one pounding heartbeat before the truck began to rock over to the right, onto two wheels. Miller could feel the floor become a wall as the fast-moving vehicle went over sideways. Terrill Lee and Scratch both shouted obscenities, neither particularly clever nor funny. The soldiers panicked and dropped their weapons, scrambling for something to hold on to. They started to roll over. Miller held on with all her might to the rings holding her shackles. Things got very focused and slowed way down. Miller tightened her muscles and held on, just hoping to survive this latest disaster. Change meant opportunity if she could stay alive.

The truck skidded over on its side, squealed loudly as it threatened to roll again, onto its roof. A horrendous metallic screeching, sounds high and low and much like the moan of a horde of approaching zombies, emanated from the truck's frame. It slid down the highway, moving fast. Miller held on, screaming silently. Something sturdy attempted to stop the truck's progress, but merely altered its path instead. Whatever it was then sent the truck spinning violently in circles. Miller just closed her eyes and held on tight. A moment later, the truck crashed into another object WHUMP and finally came to an abrupt stop. She opened her eyes.

You got to be fucking kidding me,
Miller thought.

The zombies were loose! The little girl jumped up on one of the soldiers—the sergeant. She bit him on the left shoulder. He screamed. He attempted to shoot the girl in the temple, but instead managed to take the top off the head of his neighboring Guardsman. Meanwhile the zombie woman must have decided that the sergeant was a prime target, because she crawled over to him and bit him high on his left leg. She tossed her head like a big cat, ripping to and fro, coming away with a huge chunk of flesh.

Corporal Wells took them out without killing the others. Two clean shots and both went down.

The Sergeant raised his hands. "No! Wells, I'll be fine, wait!"

Wells shot the pleading Sergeant in the forehead. He went down hard and fast. A wide spray of brains, bone and blood soaked the bottom of the truck. It was over.

Miller looked around. She wanted to see who else had moved. Terrill Lee groaned. He now dangled upside down from the bench he had been sitting on, which was above his head. Scratch lay still, eyes closed. Miller couldn't tell if he were alive or dead. Darla hung from her restraints. As expected, she just sobbed. Two surviving Guardsmen, a man and a woman, lay at the bottom of the truck. Both were struggling to get back to their feet and find their weapons. All the other Guardsmen were toast.

"Willie," said Miller. "Help us."

Corporal Wells looked up. His face changed when she used his first name. "I don't know if I can do that, Sheriff," he said. He spoke with an odd combination of respect and disdain. "For one thing, how do I know you aren't going to attack us?"

"I won't. I give you my word."

Wells sagged. He held his weapon loosely at his side, unsure what to do. "I mean, I'm surprised you're not changing already."

"Willie, I'm not a zombie, I don't know why, but I don't plan on being one. Ever. Now do us all a favor and unlock these chains so we can defend ourselves. Let's try to work together."

"That ain't a good idea," Corporal Wells said, mostly to himself. He seemed to study his options carefully. They weren't great. He could kill them all and be sure. Or he could trust them and take a chance, maybe live another day.
Hmmm.

Finally Wells pulled a knife out of his pocket. He cut Terrill Lee's flex-cuffs, who rubbed his wrists and ankles. Then Scratch's—who promptly crumpled to the floor. Wells freed Darla who sobbed with gratitude and went to her knees. Then he approached Miller. Watching her carefully, his hand close to his sidearm, Wells unlocked her wrists. As the blood began to flow back into her fingers, Miller sighed. She rubbed her raw skin. Her arm brushed up against her dress, and it came away smeared with blood. She looked down at herself, checking herself for wounds, but quickly realized that the fine mist of the sergeant's brains and blood now covered her torn wedding dress. She had almost forgotten that she was still wearing the fucking thing. She made up her mind that the first thing she was going to do when all this shit blew over, assuming she couldn't find a new uniform, was to find a proper pair of jeans.

Miller looked around, and her eyes settled on the motionless figure on the bottom of the truck. Scratch. She went over to him, kneeled down and checked his pulse. It was there, weak but there. Miller took a deep breath. She couldn't have dealt with another death. Not right then.

"Terrill Lee," she said, without looking up.

Terrill Lee just sat on the bottom of the truck, stunned.

"Terrill Lee," she repeated. "Get your ass over here and let's help him out." Miller raised her head. She shot him a look that could have boiled raw eggs.

Finally, he looked up and focused on Miller. "Penny?" he asked, as if just recognizing her. "You okay?"

"At least you're consistent," said Miller. "Absolutely fucking useless."

Miller studied Scratch. She knew CPR, but somehow that seemed both gross and inappropriate. So the best she could come up with was to slap him. Hard.

"Scratch, wake up."

"He's dead, ain't he?" demanded Darla. She wailed. "That's just great. Now we're all gonna die."

Miller studied her. Darla's wrists were bleeding. She held her arm, and blood welled up under her fingers.

"No we ain't," Miller said firmly. She turned to Wells and said, "Willie, you do something for her."

"Macumber is the medic," said Willie. He indicated a buff blonde man who was sitting up, holding his buzz cut head. "Do what the lady says, private."

The soldier named Macumber dragged himself onto his feet. He went over to Darla. He bound her arm with some gauze from a green pouch. Then he came over to Scratch, examined him too. "If he wakes up," the medic said, after a few tense moments, "he should be fine."

"If? What do you mean,
if?
Soldier, is he going to wake up or not?"

"Lady, I have no fucking clue," said the medic.

EIGHT

The truck stank of offal and blood, fear and dust and gasoline. Wells reached down to pull the radio off the sergeant's belt. He keyed the microphone. "Crystal Palace, this is Firedog One-Eight. Do you copy?" Crackling static responded. Wells repeated the call three times before giving up. His weary expression said it all. He was a young man who looked ready for a rest home.

"Looks like we're on our own," Wells said. His voice came from far away. The skin under his right eye twitched. "Oh, man."

"Willie," said Miller softly.

"Do me a favor, Sheriff Miller. Stop calling me Willie. My lousy, drunken asshole of a father calls me that."

"Called you that," corrected Miller. "I don't know how you're going to react to this, but he didn't make it through that first night." There, she'd said it.

Wells stared at her. He studied her for a long moment. He seemed to search himself for emotion. "Huh," Wells said, finally. "Maybe sometimes them zombies ain't so bad after all."

"W…" Miller caught herself. She pulled his correct first name out of the dense fog in her mind. "Lance, don't say that. Your father was a good man."

"Explain that shit to my Mom. Oh, that's right. You can't. She left us years ago."

"I know," Miller said. She nodded sympathetically, thinking:
What the fuck? Like we have time for family therapy in the middle of a zombie apocalypse? Wake up, kid.
"Look, we gotta get out of here right now, gotta go get us some help. Too many people have already died. Enough for today. Let's just make sure we ain't going to join them any time soon. Suck it up."

"Right." Wells nodded, responding to her attitude. His voice strengthened. "Fulton, Macumber. Follow me. We gotta get the Sheriff here a sit-rep." Without another word, the three soldiers hoisted their weapons, glad to have something to do. They carefully stepped over their dead comrades and headed outside into the glaring sunlight. The sight was macabre. Carnage in and behind the truck. Out the back Miller saw the surface of another planet. Empty desert, dried sage, cactus. Dust devils twirled around blood splatter and strange globs of purple and red flesh.

Miller turned to see Darla hovering over Scratch. Miller surely didn't care for the idea that Scratch might never wake up. She had worked too hard to keep him alive. She knelt next to him. Miller prodded again. Slapped him hard.

"Scratch," she said. "Get off your lazy ass. We got some real problems. I can't have you playing possum in the middle of all this." Miller reached down and pinched the back of his arm.

Scratch pulled gently away from the pinch like a man in a drunken stupor. He tried to roll over onto one side. He snored.

"Holy fuck," cried Darla. She noisily backed into a corner, clutching her bandaged wrist. "Is he alive or coming back? He ain't gonna turn into one of those God-damned things, is he?"

Miller considered that for a terrified second. Then she almost shrieked. "Scratch ain't turning into a zombie. He don't have my permission to die. Now shut the fuck up and make yourself useful. Go gather up all the weapons and ammo from these dead soldiers, and bring 'em over here by me. Can you handle that much?"

"I…" Darla stammered.

Miller turned to look. Saw movement behind her. "Terrill Lee, help her out. I want weapons and ammo. And while you're at it, bring me the biggest-assed pistol you can find."

Something in her commanding tone and the reference to earlier that morning, back at their house, seemed to slap Terrill Lee across the face. "You got it, Dirty Harriet." He managed a weak smile. Miller decided to return it for old time's sake.
Let's let him think I still have some respect for his sorry ass. That ought to get him pointed downrange for a while...
An angry woman in a filthy wedding dress ordering everyone around. What had the world come to now?

Miller turned her attention to Scratch. She slapped him again, just enough to get his attention. His weathered face wrinkled up like a baby's, which was kind of cute in a beat up, tattooed, scraggly sort of way. He came back to planet earth.

"The fuck?" Scratch whispered. He reached up to rub his head. The bandage that Miller had slapped on him days ago came loose. The scalp wound scab had cracked and a rivulet of blood ran down from his forehead and into the stubble on his dirty right cheek. Scratch woke up. His eyes came back into focus. He looked her up and down.

"Damned if you ain't a sight, Sheriff." He took in the blood-splattered dress. "Guess you ain't planning on another white wedding. It is kind of purty, though."

"What, this old thing?" Miller grinned. "I only wear this when I'm out hunting me some zombies."

She grabbed Scratch under the right shoulder, hauled him up into a sitting position. "Come on, I need you awake. We gotta get organized and get out of here."

"Where's Roger Ramjet?"

"If you mean the sergeant, he's the dude over there that's missing a head. No, that one over there on his back." A girl had to narrow it down these days. "Now, if you meant the corporal, he's outside with the surviving Guardsmen doing some recon. Speaking of Corporal Wells, where the fuck is he, anyway?"