The Hungry (16 page)

They walked without speaking or asking questions. They all knew no one would respond. As they approached the doors, Miller wasn't surprised that Terrill Lee still went along with it, but knowing what she knew of Scratch, she was amazed he allowed himself to be escorted anywhere, especially by someone representing the authorities. Where was that willful, scraggly, self-assured biker she'd come to know?

As they finally passed through the big double doors, the world shrank into manageable corridors and small rooms made of tile, metal and dull concrete. The atmosphere changed the rest of the way from desert hot to industrial chilly. Miller suppressed a shiver. The air conditioning bit right through the torn wedding dress and seemed to lecherously fondle her sweaty skin. The big doors closed silently behind them. The group moved down the hall and stepped onto a large elevator. They went down a floor. The doors opened again and they stepped out into a large corridor. Black security cameras crouched high in the corners like tiny hanging bats. The efficient, state-of-the-art gadgets whirred quietly as they tracked the group. They walked on and on down the hall. The tiled floor echoed a bit.

"Where the hell are you taking us?" Scratch finally demanded. He'd rediscovered his bravado. He blinked in the bright fluorescent light as if he had just awakened from a deep sleep.

"Decontamination," someone said. One of the soldiers.

Miller turned her head. Another door had opened in the wall. A new man in fatigues approached them, moving crisply. He wore no insignia, but his bearing was imposing. He was around fifty, brown hair graying at the temples, a square jaw and penetrating eyes.
Rather handsome,
Miller thought. Her stomach growled. She was hungry again. The other soldiers, including Wells and Macumber, came abruptly to attention. Whoever this newcomer was, it was clear that he was firmly in charge.

"Howdy. And you are?" asked Miller.

The officer smiled cheerfully. He was a cocky man, the kind of bad dude that could give a girl a tingle in her tangle. For a brief second Penny Miller thought of the crocodile in Peter Pan. He looked her up and down. "I'm Colonel Sanchez," he said, almost as if granting a favor. "And who might you be, miss?"

"Sheriff," she corrected. "I'm Sheriff Penny Miller, Flat Rock County." Miller waived a hand at the blank, spotless walls. "What
is
this place?"

"I'll explain more later," Sanchez said. "As of right now consider this your safe haven." Another man in a white lab coat came through the door. Clean cut and handsome with gentle eyes. "Sheppard, why don't you find the Sheriff and her companions housing and some suitable clothing." Sanchez turned back to Miller with snark in his smile. "However, I regret to inform you that we don't have a wedding chapel here, Sheriff."

Behind them, Scratch chuckled dryly. Terrill Lee rolled his eyes. Miller let the taunt pass. She was tired of the cracks and just happy about the very prospect of something new to wear—anything new would suffice.

"Follow me, please." This from the good-looking one, Sheppard. They shuffled along, moving like prisoners on a chain gang. Darla started mumbling to herself again. Their guards remained stone-faced. Sheppard waved a door open and led them down a long, hollow corridor. Their footsteps echoed. Scratch caught Miller's eye. He seemed to have tensed up. Terrill Lee just looked exhausted.

Miller noted that the military escort always followed close behind, weapons always at the ready. Perhaps they still expected her to turn into a zombie at any given moment, but then whoever had been on the radio to the sergeant back in the truck a few hours before was pretty clear that he'd wanted a
specimen
. So Miller guessed that she'd now qualified. They weren't likely to just blow her away if she started showing signs of becoming one of those things, but they were also sure as hell going to be certain she didn't turn on them.

They feared her.

Sheppard finally took them to a more isolated section of the underground base. He directed each of them into small individual rooms. Miller watched as each of her companions entered their little cubicle. Scratch tensed up, reminded of a prison cell, but went along anyway. His door slid closed. Darla and Terrill Lee entered their cubicles without comment. The doors locked them in, too. Miller tried to remember where they'd come from, how those doors had worked, where the damned cameras were. She was tired and really hungry—right then she could have eaten the ass end out of a dead elephant. Miller was the last to go inside her own room. She didn't like the idea of being separated from the others, but knew she didn't have a choice.

Inside her bland, white room was a cot, a mirror, a washbasin with a small bathroom kit and a metal toilet. On a wall hook hung a one-size-fits-all jumpsuit, appropriately dull and army green. She quickly scanned the ceiling and walls for hidden cameras. Miller found nothing obvious, but upon reflection realized that didn't prove anything. She doubted Sanchez would be giving anyone privacy. The cameras were probably hidden in light fixtures.
Ah, what the hell.
It didn't matter a rat's dick if she was being observed. Miller would have done a naked pole dance in front of the Pope to get out of that fucking wedding dress once and for all.

Miller pulled the dress over her head. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She was now naked except for her uniform boots—she had almost forgotten that she hadn't been wearing anything under the dress. Dry red and gray matter was splattered in a pattern that ranged from the top of her breasts to the crown of her hair. She spent a few precious minutes at the washbasin rubbing the sergeant's brains from her skin. Then she washed her hair as best as she could with a little plastic bottle of shampoo that had been provided. Miller stared at her reflection. Scrubbed and pink, she appeared disarmingly pretty, younger than many of the others, and all too vulnerable. She didn't particularly enjoy feeling or looking that way.

When she felt clean at last, Miller took off her filthy boots and slipped into the military jump suit. It was scratchy and rubbed her in ways that made her wish she had a decent pair of panties. But shitfire, it wasn't that damned dress, so Miller figured she could handle a little irritation to those nether regions. She put her boots back on, straightened her hair, and went to open the door.

It was locked, of course.

Miller pounded on the door. "All done in here!"

No response.

"Hello? Soldier?"

Zip. Nada. Bupkis.

"Hey," Miller called, growing frustrated, "what the fuck is this?" She pounded on the door a couple of times. Nothing. "I want some food!"

Miller paced a circle in the small room. She flipped a bird to the hidden video cameras. Pondered her situation. The first thing she checked was the mirror. She knew they could be behind the mirror, watching her the whole time. She marched up to it and addressed her reflection. "Come on you assholes, are you going to let me out of here, or what?"

She pressed her fingers against the mirror, hoping to see it flex inward, a sure sign that it was actually a secret one-way window. Nothing. It seemed to be solid glass. She took off one of her boots and held it like a club. She swung the heavy steel toe at the mirror. It shattered obligingly, small glass fragments landing in the washbasin. Behind the glass there was nothing but solid wall.
Oops. There goes any chance of using some makeup in the near future.

"Fuck a duck," Miller said, apparently to no one but herself. She put the boot back on. She studied every inch of her prison cell. Standing on the cot, she checked the ceiling for loose panels. Nada. Under the sink, inside the toilet. No loose floor tiles. The walls began to close in.

"Hey!" Miller went back to the door. She pounded. "What's going on?" She knew the door opened inward, so there was no sense kicking at it. She was stuck, at least for the time being. Miller considered lying down on the cot to catch some sleep. She'd learned a long time ago that she should never turn down sleep, food, or a decent lay. But under these circumstances, sleeping would have felt like giving up. Unfortunately, there also wasn't really anything else she could do.

She had just made up her mind to take that nap when the doorknob clicked and the door opened. Even colder air rushed in. That handsome man in the white coat came in. Sheppard, according to his name tag. Sheppard had a black medical bag in his right hand. There was a Taser strapped to his belt. Miller looked behind him. A soldier armed with a rifle stood right outside the door, but did not enter.

"How are you feeling today, Sheriff?" asked Sheppard, like some Terrill Lee-style country doctor coming by for a quick follow-up visit. His eyes were gentle and his concern appeared sincere.

"How am I feeling? I'm feeling pissed off, Sheppard. What's the big idea of locking me in?"

"We have the safety of the facility to think of, ma'am."

"Sheriff."

"Sorry, Sheriff." Sheppard opened the bag. He grabbed a blood pressure cuff and a stethoscope. "Have a seat."

It was not a request. Miller stared at him for a long moment, debating her options. She could have laid him out in two seconds, but the soldier in the hall stood ready to intervene. She was sure there were cameras everywhere. As long as she was in this underground lair, with no weapons and nothing to her name but that filthy fucking wedding dress and a pair of boots, Miller was pretty much powerless. For now. So she sat down.

Sheppard smiled sympathetically. He took her blood pressure, listened to her lungs and heart then took her body temperature via her ear. She was damned glad he didn't produce a rectal thermometer. One more embarrassment and she'd have to kick some serious ass and go down in a blaze of glory, guns or no guns.

Without asking, Sheppard zipped open her jumpsuit. He rolled it down farther than Miller would have expected. She was in no position to argue. He removed the bandage on her shoulder, all business. Not one peek at her boobs. That made him even more attractive than before.

"That's a nasty wound, Sheriff," Sheppard said. The statement didn't seem to warrant a reply. Sheppard did a few things to clean it out, one of which stung a bit. He re-bandaged the wound with clean gauze. He took out a needle, and before she could flinch, plunged it into her arm. It didn't hurt—he was good at his job. As he packed his things, Miller covered herself again. The soldier in the doorway was pretending not to look, but his posture said he already had a tent pole in his jockeys.
They must get awful damned horny way out here...

Sheppard sat back on his side of the cot. "Now, please tell me about the zombies, Sheriff. Anything and everything you can remember."

Miller snorted. "Should I tell you about my mother, too?"

Sheppard looked at his watch. For some reason he slowly counted down from ten to one, under his breath. Miller felt all her resistance fading away. Suddenly she felt woozy and a bit drunk. The room seemed to slide sideways as she fell onto the cot. The twin fluorescent lights above her turned like the blades of a fan, or maybe a bright white chopper. She closed her eyes.

"Shall we try this again, Sheriff? What do you know about the zombies?"

As sleepy as she was, Miller talked. And then she talked some more.

ELEVEN

"I'm still waiting for the results of the blood tests," Sheppard reported excitedly, "but I have every reason to believe that the sheriff was infected but is still showing no signs of ill effects."

"Outstanding," said Colonel Sanchez. He rose up from behind the plain wooden desk like a man posing for a photograph. He began to pace. A small television droned in the background, replaying videos of zombie attacks on civilians and news reporters. Sheppard licked his lips and flinched. His stomach rumbled ominously. He'd had watery diarrhea for days. Probably just stress. Sheppard didn't complain. He'd learned it was best not to interrupt the boss when he was thinking.

Sanchez stopped walking. He stared out through the thick, bulletproof window that overlooked the busy aircraft hangar.

"What is the subject's status?" That was the reedy tenor of Lt. Albert, who remained at attention by the desk. Sheppard couldn't tell if he was relieved that there might be a pot of gold under this particular rainbow, or shaking off the nasty reprimand he'd received after losing biker Romeo-Two and letting the infection spread. Sanchez kept his back to them. Sheppard despised Albert. He knew that if the prick had done his job properly, there would have been no zombie outbreak. Their project would still be a secret. A whole lot of people would still be alive, including Sheppard's old partner Taylor. Poor Taylor had deserved a stint in rehab, not suicide by cop after murdering his own girlfriend. Sheppard studied Albert, barely hiding his disdain.
Arrogant bastard.
He probably thought he had gotten away with it. And based on Sanchez's demeanor, he may very well have.
But one of these days…

It took Sheppard a moment to snap out of his revenge fantasy. He realized Albert had asked him a question. "Sorry, sir. I shot her up with about 20 cc's of thorazine to make her sleep. Her metabolism is already accelerating, so there's no telling how long she'll stay out, maybe only an hour or two. It's amazing. That nasty wound in her shoulder is already halfway healed. Sheriff Miller is a medical marvel. I've never seen anything quite like it."

"Security?"

"She's locked up properly, and I have two good men guarding her. She shouldn't be a problem."

"Let's hope for your sake that she isn't," said Lt. Albert smugly. The hint of an accusation crouched between his words. His lips were pursed.

Sheppard sighed inside. He knew Albert was already spinning things, shifting responsibility for the outbreak to cover his own ass. He'd surely find some way to blame both Sheppard and Taylor and cover himself with glory. But Col. Sanchez would have to be stupid to believe such a line of shit. And Sanchez was many things, but a moron wasn't one of them.