The Hungry

by Steve Hockensmith

  Eventually the car came to a complete stop. The zombie horde kept closing in. Miller knew that they would soon be surrounded. Ugly faces and shredded fingernails clawed at the smeared windows. The hungry were fighting to get in. The moaning and groaning sounds grew steadily louder. Inside the car, Darla began humming more loudly and urgently in response. Her Prince was coming, and soon. Meanwhile, Terrill Lee clung to Miller like a scared kid. She had to shove him away to avoid getting crushed. Time was running out.

  "Come on," Miller cried. "Let's get the fuck out of here!"

  "Wait for it," said Scratch. He kept his foot on the gas pedal but quit pushing the engine. He relaxed for a moment. Miller noticed that he kept his tired eyes glued to the rear view mirror. Miller turned her head to look. The zombies behind them shuffled in slowly, persistently, until they gradually filled in the gap at their rear as well, blocking the pursuing Blood Riders. The gang was close behind and had almost caught up to them before, but now they had to hang back and watch. Soon, Miller saw nothing but zombies all around. The car rocked back and forth. The moaning continued. Fingernails scraped at the glass, bloody saliva smeared the windshield. The horde completely surrounded the car. Miller got it. The biker gang would assume they were dead or well on their way to being zombies themselves.

  "Guess they won't be following us now," said Scratch. He grinned triumphantly. He once again pushed down on the accelerator. The engine roared. Miller shouted for joy as the car surged forward. They rolled a few yards, crushing the undead in their way… only to stop again.

  Uh oh.

  "Well, genius, what do we do now?" demanded Miller. She could barely hear herself over the moaning of the zombies, the grinding of the engine, the pounding on the hood and roof, Terrill Lee's whimpering and Darla's incessant fucking Disney Princess humming.

  "I… I don't get it," said Scratch. He jammed his foot down on the accelerator. The engine raced, the wheels spun, but the car didn't move.

  "Would it help if we got out and pushed?" Miller asked, dryly.

  "Shit yeah, you go for it," replied Scratch. He wasn't smiling.

  Curious zombies peered hungrily in the windows. They were front, back, on all sides. Even with the windows closed, Miller could smell their putrid stench. She had a strong stomach, but apparently Darla didn't make it through dissecting that frog in high school. Darla began vomiting violently on the floor of the cruiser. Compared to the zombies, that smell was almost pleasant. Just what they'd needed to round things out. Everyone wanting to puke.

  "What are we going to do?" demanded Terrill Lee. He had butched up as best he could, but Miller could tell he was now barely hanging on. His voice cracked.

  "Yeah, Scratch," echoed Miller. "What the hell are we going to do?"

  "I think there's some zombie guts under the rear wheels," Scratch said. "So maybe if I try backing out…"

  "Right into the hands of the bikers?" Miller rubbed her temples. "Scratch, something tells me this wasn't the brightest idea."

  A man crawled across the hood, groaning and snapping at them. Scratch jerked back. "All right, Sheriff! Knock it off. If you have any brilliant ideas of your own now's the time. Let's hear it. What's on your mind?"

  Miller shook her head. "Me? I just keep thinking I don't want to die wearing this stupid wedding dress."

  The groaning horde pressed inward. Glass began to crack. The car bounced and rolled and exhausted shock absorbers started to squeak. Eerie faces smashed up against the smeared windows like grotesque, squashed Halloween pumpkins. Miller considered shooting Terrill Lee, then herself, through the head. But she wasn't quite ready to cash in her chips. Not yet.

  Miller thought for moment. "Okay, if you think that you can get some traction going backwards, do it," she said finally. "There's a lot fewer of the Blood Riders than these here undead bastards."

  Scratch didn't need to be told twice. He threw the cruiser into reverse, and gunned it. The tires spun. And spun. The zombies pressed in. One broke off the side mirror.

  They went nowhere.

  "Terrific," said Miller. "Now we're both geniuses."

  As if on cue, Darla lost it. "I knew it! We're all gonna die here! We're screwed. Oh, my God, I don't want to end up walking around all messed up like those brain-munching ugly-assed theme park zombie fucks!" She reached over and picked up the 9mm that Scratch had dropped on the front seat. She cocked the hammer and pointed it at her head.

  "What the fuck are you doing, Darla?" cried Scratch. He grabbed her hand and twisted the weapon away from her head just as the gun went off. BOOM! The sound was deafening. The bullet exited through the passenger side roof, clipped a fat zombie in a security guard uniform, went right through his cheek and dropped a teenaged boy holding a football. Miller could see a small patch of sunlight over the boy's shoulder before the horde closed in again.

  Scratch wrenched the gun out of Darla's hand. "I've had enough of this shit," he said. He pulled the keys from the ignition and fumbled through them. Finally finding the one he wanted, Scratch unlocked the NHP-issue assault rifle from its stand between the seats. Another key then opened a small ammunition locker. The car was fully rocking from side to side now, ready to tip over, and spider-webbed cracks marked both windshields. Scratch looked back at Miller and smiled. At least he was now armed for a last stand.

  "You're not going to shoot that thing in here," said Miller. "You'll blow my eardrums out once and for all. No more American Idol reruns for me."

  "No, I'm not gonna shoot it in here," Scratch said sarcastically. He put the keys back in the ignition, fired up the cruiser. "Darla, when I get out, you slide over here. Get ready to drive like a bat out of hell."

  "What do you mean, when you get out?" demanded Miller. "Have you lost what was left of your pea-brained, biker boy, cotton-picking mind?"

  "I got you into this here mess, Sheriff. Now I'm going to fix it."

  "Scratch," Miller said slowly, "as much as we appreciate the gesture, don't open the door. Dude, that is one very, very bad idea."

  Exasperated, Scratch yelled, "Well, what the fuck are we supposed to do?"

  Before Miller could answer, a bright yellow flame engulfed the mass of zombies that were pressing on the left side of the cruiser. The creatures shivered as if the fire were ice water. They stiffened as they burned and blackened and began to fall away. Another huge gout of flame appeared and washed over them. Now Miller could see the open desert beyond.

  "What the goddamned crispy critters was that?" cried Darla.

  Burning zombies moaned and writhed among the rapidly spreading flames. Ash rose up and scattered in the wind created by the rolling waves of heat. Another huge spout of flame appeared, this time on their right. The blistering fire enveloped more of the undead. Someone or something even more deadly than the zombies was coming their way. Miller came to her senses before the others.

  There was no time left. "Scratch, hit the siren!" shouted Miller.

  "Which switch, damn it?" Scratch had already picked up on Miller's thought and his hands were moving. He dropped the assault rifle, searched the dashboard.

  "The middle one, the middle one," cried Miller.

  Scratch found it. More flames, this time it came from directly behind them. It blew through the zombies like tinder wood. Scratch kept twisting the switch. Finally it worked. The siren went off WHOOP WHOOP WHOOP. The horde of burned creatures piled up outside left the sound almost nowhere else to go. It was damned loud. Miller prayed it was loud enough.

  Miller and Scratch locked eyes. They waited. Time had run out. The fatal shower of flames never came. Instead, Miller heard the welcome sound of small arms fire. The popping noises seemed to be coming from the front of the cruiser. Sure enough, zombies fell where they stood, large holes mysteriously appearing in their heads. Finally, enough of the zombies were down. Scratch and Miller and Terrill Lee whooped and cheered. They could all see a path opening up ahead of their vehicle. Darla was still rocking and humming with her eyes squeezed sh
ut. She had missed the whole thing.

  The daylight returned as the last of the creatures were swept away. They were free at last. Miller squinted and shaded her eyes against the glare. She could see figures moving around outside and hulking shapes rolling closer.

  Scratch shook his head. "Well, I'll be…"

  A large National Guard truck with a roof-mounted flamethrower sat on the highway perhaps thirty yards away. Eight Guardsmen in combat gear and flak vests stood in front of those giant trucks. They continued mowing down the last of the zombies on the left and right. One of them waved hello.

  "Thank God," said Miller. "We're finally safe."

  The Guardsmen ran forward, still shooting as they came. Two efficient teams approached the cruiser, their semi-automatic weapons pointing right at the passengers just in case. Miller saw other soldiers spreading out, firing at anything that still moved. Double taps in the head every time. They knew their stuff. The soldiers surrounded the cruiser. One motioned for them to unlock it. Scratch complied.

  All four doors opened at once.

  "Get out," ordered one of the Guardsmen.

  Miller was the first to emerge, the wedding dress bunched in her right hand. "Thanks, Sergeant, I'm Sheriff Penny Miller of…"

  "Shut up," said the Sergeant. He grabbed her by her arm. Miller groaned. Oblivious to her wound, the soldier dragged her toward the waiting truck. Miller looked around. The others were receiving the same rough treatment. She looked back onto the highway behind them. The gang had fled. The Blood Riders were nowhere to be seen.

  "Take it easy, man," said Miller. "My shoulder hurts like a motherfucker."

  "Close the pie hole, lady."

  "What's going on?" Miller demanded, still struggling to free her arm. "I'm an officer of the law, you idiot."

  The soldier eyed her torn wedding dress. He fought back a smile. "You're in protective custody ma'am, which kind of means you now have the right to just shut the fuck up!"

  The Guardsmen moved them toward one of the trucks, still very much at gunpoint. Darla remained in shock. She whispered to herself. Meanwhile, Scratch was only slightly more cooperative than he had been with Deputy Wells back at the jailhouse. And poor Terrill Lee looked like he was ready to piss himself. All Miller wanted at that moment was for the screaming pain in her shoulder to stop. Well, that and to get back into a uniform. Girl, she thought, when there are fully-automatic rifles pointed at you from all sides, it's likely not a good time to play hero…

  "Get in," said the sergeant.

  Miller looked into the truck. The space inside was dark, and large enough to hold at least twenty people. At the back of the truck squatted three filthy shapes. One moved. A low moan, all too familiar, emanated from that grim darkness. Miller recognized that awful stench.

  "What the fuck, are you serious?"

  "Look, lady, you've got two choices. Cooperate and get in the truck, or we hogtie you and throw you in there defenseless. Which is it going to be?"

  Miller couldn't believe what she was hearing. "Did it ever occur to you that…?"

  "That's it!" said the Sergeant. He pulled a pair of flex-cuffs from his belt, twisted her arms behind her, and secured her hands. Darla and Terrill Lee were also smashed against the truck and handcuffed. Scratch, however, had different ideas. He slammed his fist into the face of the nearest Guardsman, caught him right in the jaw and dropped him like a zombie with a bullet in the brainpan. Before he could hit the next one, two of the other Guardsmen bum-rushed and tackled him. The sergeant shoved the barrel of his rifle in Scratch's face. Two Guardsmen wrenched his arms behind him and secured his hands. Then one by one, the soldiers lifted each of them up, dumped them unceremoniously into the waiting truck and climbed in after them. Inside, the Guardsmen dragged them to their feet, and shoved them into a sitting position on the long benches. They hitched their handcuffs to short chains attached to the back of the benches. Nobody was going anywhere for the time being. Not now.

  The sergeant waved his rifle. "Sit there and shut up." He turned to the soldier Scratch had punched. "You okay? Look, if they try anything, you have my permission to feed 'em to the zoms."

  Miller stared at the undead things that were groaning at the back of the vehicle. It looked like a suburban family gotten rotten. They were shackled to the wall of the truck. They struggled against their restraints. Hungry, so hungry.

  "Yes, sergeant," growled the angry soldier, rubbing his jaw. He plopped himself down on the bench opposite them. He sat there, rifle at the ready. The soldier seemed indifferent to the three zombies chained up only a few feet away. His attention was focused on Scratch. He wanted revenge.

  "This is what you consider protective custody?" shouted Terrill Lee. "We haven't done anything wrong. What the hell is going on?"

  What is it about locking up Terrill Lee that somehow he gets a spine and drops a pair of nuts? wondered Miller.

  The soldier just stared. He didn't look up, even when the hungry zombies shook their chains. He wanted Scratch.

  Terrill Lee blustered. "I demand to speak to your commanding officer. I demand…"

  "Just shut up," said Scratch. He was staring back at the soldier with a smirk. "Let's see what happens next."

  The shooting, which up to this point had been more or less continuous, slowly died out. The cleanup was over. A moment later, the rest of the squad boarded the truck, which trembled and began moving. The view of the outside spun sideways in a wave of dust. They turned away from Flat Rock and headed East out into the scorching, eternally flat desert.

  The angry sergeant remained standing. His big body swayed with the motion of the truck. "Macumber, Wells," said the sergeant, indicating two of the soldiers, "you two keep these specimens quiet." The man turned his attention on Miller and the others. "Now, why don't we have us a little chat?"

  Miller almost didn't register the question. She was concentrating on the soldier called Wells. She studied his face. He seemed familiar. With that last name? Still, it was hard to tell who it was under all the black face paint. For his part, Wells studiously ignored her.

  "Hey, wifey!" the sergeant shouted. Miller looked up. She had almost forgotten he was there. "You wanted to talk, big shot. Here's your chance. You go first."

  "What do you want to know?" she asked, cautiously.

  "Let's start with what the hell were you doing in the middle of a pack of zombies driving a stolen police cruiser?"

  "We were trying to survive, Sergeant!" She looked him up and down, trying to decide if he was worth toying with. "We were being chased by a biker gang. The only way out was through the zombies."

  "There was a biker gang after you?"

  Scratch stared stoically at the sergeant. Darla ignored him. She was watching the zombies, those child-like eyes stretched wide with terror.

  "Why were they chasing you?" the Sergeant asked Miller. And now he was studying Scratch more carefully.

  "Why do bikers do anything?" asked Miller. "Because they thought they could rape and murder us and get away with it. Under the circumstances, they were probably right. Thank God we had these two men on our side."

  The sergeant kept his gaze on Scratch for a moment longer. He let it go. He turned his attention back to Miller. "Okay, and what happened to your shoulder?"

  This brought Miller up short. She wasn't in a hurry to explain what happened back in the jailhouse the day before. The whole thing was an embarrassing blur. God, had it only been yesterday?

  The sergeant became impatient. "I asked you a question!"

  "Oh, this? I cut myself shaving," said Miller. She'd had enough. "Look, dipshit, why don't you just tell us exactly where we're going and why you're restraining an officer of the law?"

  The Sergeant reddened. "That's classified."

  "Classified? What kind of bullshit answer is that?"

  "It's the only answer you're going to get, lady." The soldier turned his attention on Scratch. "Hey, model citizen. Why don't you tell me why your kind of boys were
chasing you?"

  "Why don't you suck my cock, skeezix?" replied Scratch. He hawked up a wad of mucus, and cheerfully spat on the sergeant's boot.

  The sergeant looked down at his soiled boot. He keyed the mic on his shoulder. "Stop the truck," he commanded.

  The driver immediately braked, and the truck wavered as it came to a halt. The angry soldier brought his face close to theirs. He said softly, "Here's the way this is going to work. You're going to answer my questions truthfully and promptly, or I'm going to drop you off in the middle of the desert chained to these poor fucks," he said, gesturing to the zombie family. "How long do you think you'll last if I do that?"

  Darla whimpered, the terror in her eyes growing worse. The sergeant focused on her. "What about you?" he asked her. "You got anything to say?"

  "Don't let them things eat me," she begged.

  "Why don't you tell me what's going on."

  "All I know is that the lady sheriff had arrested Scratch here. When the zombies came, she had to let him go after he'd shot her. I was with the Blood Riders when they ran into her and this wimpy guy. They ran over one of us, so we went after 'em. Everything was going great until Scratch went AWOL and took us with him. That's when we drove into the zombies, and you burned them up for us. That's it."

  "So the model citizen shot the sheriff. Huh." The soldier turned to Miller. "Wanna try this again?"

  "Look," said Miller, "what happened, happened. Scratch saved our lives back there, and under these circumstances, that's all you need to know."