The Hungry (8 page)

"Take cover," shouted Terrill Lee. The tires screeched as he swerved around a stunned pair of bikers, a wrecked car, and another headless corpse.

"Great advice," said Miller. "Maybe next time." She rolled down the window and fired back at some of the bikers. She hoped to at least make them keep their heads down, but her aim was far better than she expected. Some of the buckshot found a pair of the bikers and it took one of them all the way down. His friend grabbed at one thigh, cursing and screaming.

Terrill Lee checked it out in the rear view mirror. "Nice shot." He gave a low whistle. "I'm sure glad you're on my side."

Miller looked in the side view mirror. They passed the last of the surprised bikers. Back a ways, trouble was coming. Damned near every one of them had turned and was now following the Durango.

"Lotta good that my aim will do us if you don't keep moving," Miller replied. "Get us out of here. There's no more law. Those rabid assholes will shoot you dead and cheerfully rape me with everything longer than half an inch on and off over the next two weeks."

They sped past the school, the torched grocery and all the way out of the empty and burning town. Soon they were in open country. The desert felt safer, but there was nowhere to hide. They'd chosen speed over cover. Sagebrush and sand flowed by like sped-up film. Miller and Terrill Lee stared straight ahead, lost in their own thoughts. Neither one said a word, but they both knew they might well have made the wrong call. Behind them, the bikers gunned their cycles and began to creep closer to the Durango. It was only a matter of time.

Miller craned her neck to see out the shattered back window. "Head for the main highway," she hollered. "Maybe they'll drop back if they can't cut us off."

The minutes passed like hours. Some of the riders managed to catch up and come along their right side. One dude with a long beard waved a pistol, as if ordering them to pull over. Miller raised her shotgun and the men wisely dropped back a bit. Miller said, "Whatever you do, don't stop!"

"Right," said Terrill Lee. He swerved suddenly to bump a short, bald biker who was coming up on the left. The man went flying and his bike slid sideways into the low dunes. "I figured that part out."

The bikers—uniformly dirty, tattooed, and heavily armed—followed close behind or rode alongside and a bit behind. A few of the riders were now taking pot shots at the truck's tires. Miller watched as one of the biker women—she couldn't help thinking of them as
'bitches'
—aimed and fired at the truck. She succeeded only in hitting a biker two cycles forward. Screaming, he grabbed at his back, dumped his bike and went tumbling along the asphalt like a bag of bloody rags. Three or four of the others swerved to miss the downed motorcycle, but one got tangled up in the wreckage anyway. They were taking each other out. Miller winced as yet another one of them—a big, overweight biker with a short beard—went right over the handlebars. The guy did a face plant on the highway. A long plume of blood colored the roadway as he rolled by them into the dust.

A few of the bikers were down due to sheer luck and incompetence, but there were still way too many left for Miller's comfort. Speeding along, Terrill Lee jinked the truck between burned out cars that blocked the roadway, as much to avoid hitting them as to avoid the aim of the bikers. They had to keep moving and hope the enemy would just give up.
What is their problem? Why chase the living in a world overrun by the dead?

Unless they were after fresh pussy. And she was in a wedding dress. Uh oh.

One of the bikers yanked the accelerator on his motorcycle. He surged forward. He came up alongside the truck, carefully staying clear of the arc of the shotgun. He fired several rounds into the Durango, one of them lodging in the dashboard not far from Miller's knee. Miller set the shotgun on the floor of the truck. She pulled out her Smith and Wesson. In one smooth movement, she drew a bead on the speedy biker and pulled the trigger. The bullet caught him square in the throat. He went over sideways, clutching at the gaping wound where his Adam's apple used to be. His bulging eyes said he couldn't believe he'd been gunned down by a pissed-off young bride still in her wedding dress.
Take that, you fat skunk.

"Hey," said Terrill Lee.

Miller turned her attention to the front of the vehicle. She saw flickering and objects in the road. Seconds later she identified a roadblock of Nevada Highway Patrol cruisers, their lights flashing. They were up ahead, closing fast now, perhaps a half-mile away.

Miller breathed a sigh of relief. "I do believe we still got a chance."

"I'm on it," said Terrill Lee. He pushed the accelerator to the floor, and began inching away from the bikers behind them. Bullets still sometimes impacted on the back of the Durango, but Terrill Lee didn't slow down or flinch, not even for an instant.

And that's when the left rear tire blew. The change in balance and thumping sound threw him off. The truck swerved and slowed. Miller could hear the rim touch asphalt. She could see sparks out of the side view mirror.

"Come on, come on," Miller chanted, an unconscious imitation of Terrill Lee at the front window, just a few minutes before.

"I think I can make it," he said. The Durango continued to slow.

Bikers easily came up along the right side, and Miller blasted one right out of the saddle. The driver's side was unprotected, so one of the bolder bikers, an older man with no front teeth, came up close enough to grab the windowsill of Terrill Lee's door. Terrill Lee, seeing salvation in sight, swerved and slammed the brakes. The biker and his bitch went up and over the hood.
Thump thump…

They bumped along, still slowing down. The police roadblock was perhaps forty yards away now. Miller could see some of the Patrol Officers milling around behind their parked cruisers, but they took no action to protect the oncoming car against the pursuing bikers. Finally the truck came to a complete stop a few yards from their lines.

Miller popped her door open. She let fly with two more shots, going for covering fire if nothing else. Terrill Lee leapt from his side. He began firing back at the bikers, who turned sideways, hid behind their machines and returned the favor.

"Let's
go
," she screamed. Miller jumped up, gathered the wedding dress in one hand and the shotgun in the other. She ran as fast as she could toward the roadblock and safety. She could sense that Terrill Lee was only a few steps behind.

The bikers, originally so emboldened by the absence of order, finally slowed up in the face of the roadblock. That was just the opportunity that Miller and Terrill Lee needed. They made it into the barricade, slipped between the two cruisers, and leaned over the hood of a patrol car. They held hands and fought to catch their breath.
Hot damn,
Miller thought,
we did it.

After a moment, Miller approached the nearest Patrolman. Her badge was prominently displayed on her white wedding dress, which was a good thing, but also made her feel like a complete idiot. "Officer, I'm Sherriff Penny Miller of Flat Rock County."

The Patrolman looked at her blankly. Miller stared back. There was something wrong with his face. She flinched. She saw blood seeping from open wounds. The cop moaned wordlessly, twitched and reached out for her. His eyes were white and vacant and his mouth was hungry.

Miller was too surprised by the uniformed zombie to react in time. The undead Patrolman latched onto her arm. He brought his teeth down to bite her. Miller slugged him in the jaw as she struggled to pull free. Two shots rang out from behind her, and two neat little holes appeared in his skull. The zombie dropped limply, thus releasing Miller.

Three more zombies in uniform appeared from behind the next cruiser. Miller didn't need any more reminders. She leveled the shotgun and shot the closest one in the throat. His head tumbled down, followed by his body. Two more shots, and the other zombies' brains were vaporized.
Head shots work. Head shots work.

"Uh…" began Terrill Lee.

Miller looked up. The entire remaining biker gang, perhaps forty of them, just sat on their motorcycles, as if they had been watching a stage show. Each of them now pointed their weapons directly at Miller and Terrill Lee.

"Give me six good reasons I shouldn't have my crew blow your ass to tomato soup," demanded a bald, over-muscled, heavily tattooed biker. He had pierced eyebrows and a nose ring.

"Hey, Rag," said one of the others. "I say we waste Dale Earnhart here and get us some of that newlywed pussy."

"We might just go that way," said Rag. "You two drop them pieces, and maybe we'll let you live."

"I'm an officer of the law," said Miller. "I won't relinquish my weapon."

"Then you're ratfucked," replied Rag. He nodded at the others.

The gang took aim again. Only the sound of another motorcycle approaching stayed their hands. They looked at one another. Who had been left behind?

"Well, look who decided to join the party," said Rag.

The newcomer pulled up alongside Rag. The man switched off his engine. He brushed his long, stringy hair from his face, and rubbed at a bandage on his head.

"Hey, Scratch," said Rag.

Miller couldn't believe her eyes. "Terrill Lee, I know that dude. I thought he was zombie food. He was my prisoner back in town. We fought off the first wave together. He should be dead."

Scratch stretched and adjusted his balls. "What's the story, Ragnarok?"

"Looks like we got us some fresh meat. This bride here was just explaining to us why we should fucking blow her away because she's actually the local law."

Scratch looked at Terrill Lee blankly, but then his eyes grew wider as he recognized Miller in her wedding dress.

Scratch began to laugh. It was not a comforting sound.

FIVE

"Nice dress, Sheriff," Scratch said. He chuckled. "Damn, you picked a hell of a day for a honeymoon."

"Tell me about it." Miller scratched at her armpit, feigning nonchalance.

"Is this the meat puppet y'all got hitched to?" he asked, ignoring Terrill Lee.

"Him?" Miller rolled her eyes. She lowered her weapon slightly. The bikers followed suit. Miller looked Terrill Lee up and down. "Hell, I can assure you he ain't even the best man."

The bikers laughed heartily.

"Thanks a lot, Penny," said Terrill Lee softly. His face reddened.

Scratch continued to smile. "Now, maybe it's just me, but sure looks like you got yourself into a bit of a pickle."

Miller raised the shotgun slowly, carefully so as not to set off any of the shooters. She sighted Scratch along the barrel. "Nothing I can't handle," she replied. "So you tell your men to drop their weapons."

Ragnarok said, "Is that the lady sheriff that threw your ass in jail, Scratch?"

Scratch's face darkened. "Yeah, that's her."

"Where's Needles?"

Without taking his eyes off of Miller, Scratch said, "Miller's piece of shit deputy blew Needles' head off, so I returned the favor. Didn't I, Sheriff?" Scratch patted Miller's gun belt, which was still around his waist. He had her 9mm.

"Don't be too proud of yourself, Scratch," said Miller. She continued to train her shotgun on him. "You're just a scumbag. If it weren't for the zombies, you'd still be locked in that cell looking at twenty to life."

Scratch set his jaw. "That's tough talk from a bitch pig with about fifty guns pointed at her head."

"I don't know," said Miller, "I only count about forty. I reckon we took out at least ten of your smelly friends on the way up here. Dang, if that was any indication of how they ride and shoot I'd figure we're safer on our own."

"You may have a point there."

Someone moved and Miller flinched. Scratch turned. A nervous brunette woman a few feet to his left tried to back away from the scene.

"Darla," Scratch snapped, "you stay put."

The woman stopped moving.

Miller felt her stomach clench with fear. She kept her face rigid and a smile frozen in place.
Don't let them see you sweat…

Scratch took his eyes off of Miller. He searched the faces of the gang, carefully counting heads. Finally, he turned to Ragnarok. "Jesus, Rag, where the hell is everyone else?"

Ragnarok, who until now had appeared confident and moderately badassed, suddenly shrank a tad in stature. He had trouble looking up. In fact, he seemed childlike. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Scratch shook his head. "Looks like you did one hell of a job taking care of the family while I was gone, little brother." Before Ragnarok could answer, Scratch drew the police-issue 9mm from its holster. He aimed it at Rag. "Now, let me get this straight. Are you telling me that you let a little bitch in a wedding dress and a pasty redneck fuck like that take out
ten
of us?"

"Upon reflection," interjected Miller, "I do believe the turd who did a pizza-face header makes that eleven."

"Hey, Scratch," cried Ragnarok, eyes wide and his voice thin with fright. "It wasn't like what you think."

"That so? What
was
it like?"

Rag swallowed. "They ran over Top Notch. We couldn't let them get away with that, could we?"

"I see. People were trying to escape the zombies. They ran over one low level douchebag, and you felt a moral imperative to avenge him?"

Rag seemed bewildered. Miller fought down a smile. The bikers around them had lowered their weapons, happy to watch the show.

"That wasn't my fault," Rag sputtered. "You gotta believe me."

"Oh, I do believe. I believe that you're a worthless pile of shit." With that, Scratch aimed and fired.

Everyone jumped. Ragnarok went over backwards, his bike falling on top of him with a low clatter. The other bikers froze. Rag finally twitched. A dark stain pooled around him.

"You sombitch," cried Ragnarok, his voice a mixture of terror and relief. "You went and shot my ride!"

Now Miller could see a large hole in the bright blue gas tank right next to Ragnarok's leg. Gasoline was leaking out, soaking his blue jeans and filthy boots. Scratch had deliberately missed.