The Hungry Page 11

Miller tensed up. Her bladder was only half empty, and the last thing she needed was to add a urine stain to the tattered dress that was quickly becoming the bane of her existence.

  "Hello?"

  There was no answer. Miller drew the Browning from its holster. She peed quickly, which suddenly wasn't difficult at all. Her heart pounded against her rib cage as if issuing a warning.

  "Last chance, identify yourself."

  Still nothing. Was it Scratch, screwing around with her? Miller could hear shuffling footsteps approaching the door of the stall. Fuck a duck. Finally her bladder emptied sufficiently. That would have to do. She stood up and straightened the dress. Hefted the weapon. "Identify yourself, or I will shoot you."

  Silence. Outside a crow cawed. From far away the soldiers muttered obscenities. Miller considered firing through the wooden door, but she wanted to see the enemy. She quietly turned the lock on the stall, and then quickly slammed it open. BANG the thin door slapped the outer wall of the stall and started back. She stopped it with her left arm. Penny Miller peered out into the shadowy restroom. She saw nothing by the sink. Nothing to her left. Nothing in there with her at all. The room was empty. Her shotgun was where she left it. Everything seemed normal. Maybe I'm losing my fucking mind, that's what it is…

  Miller walked to the sink. She stayed alert. She bent over to get the shotgun.

  That's when she felt the slimy, undead hand on her shoulder.

  NINE

  At the creepy touch, Miller jumped away in a panic, dropping the Browning to the floor. She spun around with her hands out and backed up against the wall. The zombie, a grotesquely fat woman still in the early stages of decay, waddled slowly forward, reaching towards her, that omnipresent hunger evident in its vacant eyes. It wore a flowered housedress. Its filthy feet were bare, and they made faint sucking sounds as it came scuffling along the damp tiled floor. The woman looked vaguely familiar, maybe from town, but Miller had other things to think about. She backed away from the grunting apparition. The dead woman kept going uh uh uh uh under her breath.

  "Shit, not again..."

  Miller quickly took stock of her situation. The Mossberg was still propped against the sink, which was now a good six feet away. The hulking female zombie ignored the shotgun, wobbling steadily forward on partially shattered ankles to acquire its next meal. Miller searched the floor for the Browning, but she couldn't see past the creature's huge body. The door to the outside and the safety beyond stood perhaps ten feet away—with the foul zombie between her and the only exit.

  "Help!" Miller shouted. "Terrill Lee! Wells! Scratch!"

  The huge female zombie continued its slow approach, that repetitive grunt issuing from a smashed mouth. Uh uh uh. Some teeth were missing and a dental partial extended like some parody of a tongue. An obscene smear of red lipstick ran across the flattened lips and up the right cheek, adding a weirdly amusing look to an already terrifying countenance. The thing closed the gap, its bulk blocking the way out. It may have been too dumb to savor the moment, but it was also clearly in no hurry. Miller wasn't going anywhere.

  Miller searched for a means to escape. The window was open at the top, too high off the ground, too far away to do her any good. Time was running out. With the zombie only a yard or so away, Miller knew she was as good as dead.

  Fuck that!

  Sheriff Penny Miller had no intention of becoming a zombie snack. She looked down at the floor, hoping for a weapon she could use. Instead, her eyes landed on the zombie's right foot, which was bent sideways as it hobbled forward on its broken ankle bone. Miller brought her foot up and kicked the zombie in the gut. Hard.

  The soft flesh of the zombie's flabby belly seemed to inhale in a grotesque fashion. It actually enveloped Miller's foot. The thing paused. Its enormous weight possessed enough inertia that the kick did virtually nothing. The woman was too damned dead to react to Miller's attempt at self-defense. It just continued on forward, crushing Miller's outstretched leg back towards her. Pain shot up her body into her hip as Miller was smashed against the wall. With all her might, she resisted the approach of the zombie with the one leg, shoving back as hard as she could.

  The woman kept trying to walk. It kept going uh uh uh uh, which echoed around the tiny bathroom. Miller shoved hard. The woman's body began to tilt at an angle, its head shifting backwards a bit as its legs stepped closer. The zombie's broken foot came forward, but now could gain no purchase on the slippery tile floor. Finally the foot slipped and shot out sideways. The grunting sound stopped. The hulking zombie slowly fell over backwards and came down with the grace of the Hindenburg on approach to Lakehurst.

  The thing hit the tiles with an enormous THUD. Praying for a smashed skull and brain, Miller stepped back and gathered herself. The thing lay on its back and did not move. Dark stuff leaked from the brainpan. The glaring eyes did not blink. Miller didn't need another hint. She jumped over the enormous, prone form and headed for the bathroom door.

  "Shit on a shingle!"

  The zombie's claw-like hand caught Miller by the ankle, and brought her down fast. Miller hit the floor hard. The fall knocked her wind out. Miller felt her face. She'd split her chin. Blood pooled around her crushed nose and mouth. The world tilted sideways. She fought to remain conscious. It was still tugging at her, drawing her closer. That sound again, uh uh uh uh...

  Miller blinked at the ceiling, the flickering fluorescent light above. The building was moving. No, she was moving. Miller heard a scraping sound and that fucking uh uh uh uh again. Still stunned, she felt herself being dragged toward the waiting maw of the hungry zombie. Miller looked around and saw the Browning close by, the grip within reach. She reached for it, but just as she got her fingers on the weapon the zombie jerked her away. Miller clawed at the tiles, shoving hard against the zombie's shoulder with her free foot. Anything to keep away from its mouth. The zombie was surprisingly strong, pulling her closer to that deadly bite.

  "Help!" Miller shouted again. "Help me!"

  Still no response. Miller snapped out of it. She rolled over face down on the tiles, wincing at the scent of piss and cleanser. She screamed and kicked the zombie in the head as hard as she could. The thing ignored her rage. It grunted and managed to get her foot up to its mouth. It took a big bite… of her left boot.

  But the thing's teeth couldn't penetrate the steel toe. The mindless creature chewed and bit and chewed and bit and grunted uh uh uh uh.

  Miller actually giggled. "Looks like you're on a diet, bitch." She kicked the thing in the head again with her free boot. And then again. And again. Something cracked. The dentures went flying. So did a couple of rotting teeth. One eye turned to gory mush and dribbled down a cheek. Miller kept kicking, she kicked for her life. Rage and fear made her strong. To her immense satisfaction, the persistent grunting finally stopped. Soon the zombie's head was an old Halloween pumpkin on the porch, so much bloody mush. Still, the zombie's hands and mouth held on to Miller's boot. Finally, one of Miller's kicks destroyed the second eye. Blinded, the creature let go and began to flail around.

  Miller scrambled away. She lay on the floor, still bleeding from her chin. She breathed heavily, sobbing from the exertion. I've had enough of this shit, enough of this shit, I've had enough...

  The door burst open. Sunlight flooded the gory bathroom. Miller looked up. Terrill Lee stood above her, tire iron raised over his head, ready to strike. Scratch and Wells stood behind him, weapons in hand.

  "Nice of you buttheads to join the party," said Miller breathlessly.

  Terrill Lee surveyed the scene. He immediately dropped to one knee. He checked her out from head to toe, looking for bite marks. His face finally relaxed. "You're going to be fine," he said. He whispered as if he were talking to a sick calf.

  "That thing bite you?" asked Scratch, without expression. He kept his gun loosely trained on her, just in case she'd begun to change. Miller understood, but didn't care for the casual attitude.

  "No, but not for lack of tryi
ng," Miller said, dryly. "Fortunately, all it got was a taste of my boot."

  "Stop talking," said Terrill Lee. He got up, went to the sink, grabbed some paper towels. He wetted them down, knelt at Miller's side and began cleaning her face. Something in his eyes had changed. He knew what he was doing—this was his turf. He seemed far more in control of himself. Terrill Lee wore a look Miller had almost forgotten. His eyes were deep with concern.

  "I thought we'd lost you," he said, too quietly for the other men to hear.

  "You can't get rid of me that easily." Miller smiled without thinking and immediately regretted it. Agony shot up her cheek and chin. The sensation was almost unbearable. With Terrill Lee's help she sat up carefully. Miller gently moved his hands away from her face. She examined her teeth with her tongue. They seemed intact, though some were sensitive and one front tooth a little loose. She didn't care. She was just happy she wasn't dead. Especially living dead.

  "Let me finish, and let's get out of here." She held still. Terrill Lee cleaned her chin. She reached out with both hands.

  "Help me up," she commanded.

  Scratch stepped in front of Terrill Lee and grabbed Miller under the armpit. Wells did the same on her other side. Together they hauled her to her feet. Terrill Lee stood up and stepped back, his face still soft with concern.

  Wells handed the Browning to her. Scratch offered her the Mossberg. Terrill Lee held the door. She looked at each of them in turn. Men. Miller set her shoulders. She strode out of the ladies room, armed to the teeth, the shredded, discolored once-white wedding dress flowing behind her.

  "That was a grand exit," Scratch said, his voice echoing in the toilet behind her. "However, the effect was somewhat diminished by the addition of pee stains on the ass end of your gown."

  Embarrassed, Miller kept walking. The sunshine felt good on her face. From behind her, she heard Wells call, "Fire in the hole!" A half-second later, there two loud shots boomed in the ladies' room. Wells emerged from the door, a satisfied smile on his face. "Bite that, bitch."

  Miller was tired and still upset. A day late and a dollar short, cowboy. As they approached the vehicles she asked, "So we all gassed up?"

  "Yes, Ma'am," said Wells. "Luther even checked the oil. We're ready to roll."

  Miller walked over to the van. Luther was cleaning the windshield as if the end of the world had never happened and he was expecting a fucking five-buck tip for the extra attention.

  "Luther," Miller said, "you sure I can't talk you into coming with us? It ain't like this is a zombie-free zone."

  Luther spat. "The Gas-and-Sip is going to be here a lot longer than them zombie fucks, Sheriff, I guarantee it. And so am I."

  "Your call." Miller opened the door. She primly resumed her place in the front passenger seat. "Everybody onboard."

  Terrill Lee and Scratch took seats on either side of Macumber. His eyes seemed odd and he still didn't look anywhere near the top of his game. All things considered, that was probably understandable. They all knew that Fulton was dead because of his arrogance. Wells started up the van and headed back out into the desert. Miller watched Luther shrink in the rear view mirror, a stubborn old redneck staying put in a world that had gone completely mad.

  As they drove away, Miller munched on some potato chips and turned to survey her charges, as she had begun to think of the others. The people she protected. Wells seemed to be holding up pretty well. Miller knew he had seen some shit in 'Stan. He was one tough hombre. Terrill Lee sat looking out of the window, squinting in the sunshine, his sad eyes watching the corpses and burned out cars go by in a blur. Whatever he was thinking about he kept inside. Macumber stared at his boots. Miller figured he was probably running the events at the mini-mart through his mind, trying to find some way off the moral hook. Miller decided to leave him be for the moment.

  And then Scratch caught her eye. Somewhere along the line, he'd managed to acquire a fully automatic rifle. He seemed very satisfied with his status as a badass. Sensing her gaze, Scratch looked up. He winked at her. Miller allowed him a soft smile. Her gaze moved on. In the far back row, Darla continued to grip her injured wrist and hum tunelessly. She was steadily losing both her cool and her stool. Miller wondered how long it would be before she had a full-on psychotic break, if it hadn't already happened.

  Miller leaned over to Wells. "Lance, what's his first name, that soldier?" she whispered.

  "Who? Macumber?" Wells turned his head to look at the man. Macumber studied his feet, as if they held answers he lacked. "Dillon."

  "Dillon," repeated Miller.

  Macumber raised his head. Very slowly. "Yes, Ma'am."

  "Don't be so hard on yourself," she said. "Fulton would understand. You saved her from a horrible fate."

  Macumber finally nodded. He continued to stare at her, held her gaze so long Miller broke the connection between them rather than drown forever in those sad eyes. Then he answered, addressed his boots. "Actually, I never liked the bitch," Macumber said. "Not from the first day I met her."

  "Dillon…" began Miller.

  "Women don't belong in combat," he stated firmly. "No how, no way. Women got their jobs, and men have theirs. A fucking zombie firefight ain't no place for a woman."

  Miller opted to let that one go.

  "I tried to get into her pants a couple of times," Macumber said, uncomfortably. "She turned me down flat, can you believe it? Even called me a useless, flea-dicked, macho piece of goat turd. She thought she was better'n me, better'n all of us. And then she goes and ends up dead because she's too dumb to not enter a combat zone without waiting for her team. Hell, then she fuckin' deserved it. That's what I say." His voice had risen to take on a hysterical edge.

  "Macumber," said Wells. A warning.

  "You know, I'm wrong," Macumber said at last. "Maybe what she deserved was to get turned into a zombie."

  "That's enough, Private!" Wells was pissed. Everyone twitched.

  "Hey," said Terrill Lee, weakly. "Let's settle down."

  Macumber turned suddenly. "Stay out of this, you pencil-necked college boy."

  "Shut up," said Terrill Lee, now ignoring the soldier completely. He was staring straight ahead. Something else had caught his attention. "Wells, stop the van!"

  Miller sat up. "What is it?"

  Terrill Lee just pointed. She followed his gaze. A few hundred yards ahead, a semi-truck was parked on the side of the road. The driver was waving his arms, flagging them down. Wells slowed the van.

  "Easy, Wells."

  They rolled closer but stopped several yards away. Scratch leaned out the window to cover the subject. Miller rolled down her window to speak to the man. He wore jeans and a red-checkered shirt. His hair was wild with sweat and blood. His shirt was ripped at the shoulder. He'd been wounded.

  "Help… help me."

  Squinting, Miller took a good hard look at the mark on his right shoulder. It was a bite, sure as shit. The poor man was already a sickly green color, as if a lot of the blood had already drained from his body. Too late, too late...

  Miller hesitated. She knew that there was nothing they could do, but couldn't bring herself to end this poor fuck's misery right when he thought he'd been rescued. She was too exhausted and sad and just didn't want to be the one to put a bullet in his head.

  Scratch didn't hesitate. Miller heard the side door of the van open.

  "Mister, wait!" The stranger raised his hand in a futile effort to stop the bullet.

  Scratch fired at the trucker. Miller flinched. The man trembled. A small hole appeared in his chest right where the full-metal jacket round entered. There was a small puff of blood where the bullet exited. But the man continued to stand. He closed his eyes. When he opened his eyes again, they had gone all white and cloudy. He opened his mouth and out came a low groan like a bad wind moving through a deep, dark cave.

  The zombie stumbled forward to reach for the van. Still frozen and tired, Miller shrank back. Behind her, she heard a soft click as Scrat
ch set the rifle on full-auto. BAM BAM BAM… BAM BAM BAM… out came the thunder of the rounds, equaled in volume only by frightened shouts from Darla. Scratch stopped firing. The sound continued to echo through the low desert hills. The zombie's head had exploded into bloody shreds. The miserable trucker's corpse went loose and dropped heavily to the ground.

  The echo of gunfire continued to ricochet across the hardpan, long after it should have. In fact, the low, repetitive throb seemed to be coming from nowhere and everywhere all at once. It wasn't just the echoes, it was something else. Something close and moving closer.

  "Choppers," commented Macumber coolly. Still, there was an edge in his voice.

  "Sounds like Blackhawks," Wells said, in a professional tone.

  "I've got 'em," said Terrill Lee. Not to be outdone by the other men he stayed cool and calm in his response. Miller looked in the direction of the sound. Three sleek, olive drab helicopters were headed their way, staying very low to the ground, the whirling blades a smoky blur in the harsh sunlight, their winglets hung for bear. From what she could tell, they were descending fast and heading right toward the van. They didn't have to make it to the base, it had found them.

  Wells exited the driver's side. He lit a flare that he had stored in a pouch on his suspenders. He began to wave at the helicopters. The choppers came in low but pulled away in response, reading the signal. They circled their position as if radioing in for orders. Miller and Terrill Lee exchanged looks. They all got out of the van and stood with their weapons pointed down at the asphalt. The choppers dropped down, sand spraying everywhere, and finally landed on the empty highway.

  Smiling, Wells jogged out to meet them.

  Four military men exited each of the three helicopters, sphincter tight in their black Kevlar, bright reflecting shades on, nasty automatic weapons at the ready. One man was a Major from the look of his uniform. Miller thought him a handsome devil, in some exotic way. He walked right up to Wells, who snapped to attention. They had a brief conversation. Wells sagged a bit and then saluted. He turned on his heel in a perfect about face, came jogging back to the van with his weapon at the ready, his boyish smile gone.