"I am under orders to get you on the choppers, Sheriff," he said through the driver's window. His eyes were set in stone. There was clearly no room for argument.
"Are we pleased by this development," asked Miller, "or are we just kind of 'oh hell it's yet another shit-storm' frightened?"
"Good question." Wells looked at her for a long moment. He finally leaned in close. "Sheriff, I think we'd all best be feeling scared."
TEN
Just when you figure a day can't get any worse…
Strapped in tightly, Miller sat on the jump seat of the Blackhawk. The giant whirling blades beat the air into submission at speeds in excess of 150 knots. Her hair stung when it slapped her face. The distressed wedding dress clung firmly to her cold legs. The other two helicopters held close formation, echelon right. At times Miller would have sworn their deadly rotor blades were close enough to touch. She would have thought that the pounding throb of the blades would have filled the cabin, but the shrill whine of powerful turbines was the dominant sound.
They supplied her with a pair of thick headphones, but they were useless except for protecting her ears. The pilots and their captors—she had trouble thinking of them as her escorts despite how they had identified themselves—seemed to be on a different channel. She could see them conversing, but nothing came through on her headset. Fuck it. She didn't really care to hear what they were saying. Miller was just glad that there weren't any goddamned zombies sitting next to her, that her hands weren't bound, and hoped that someone would offer a change of clothing sooner or later. At this point she'd have given her left boob for a pair of jeans and a clean blouse.
Down below the chopper, their own shadows chased them across the desert floor like a giant black spider. The empty Nevada hardpan lay spread flat as browning batter all around them, a bleak, sage-dotted emptiness visible for miles beneath gin-clear skies. She couldn't tell where they were headed. Miller knew Flat Rock was now behind them to the west, and that Elko should be somewhere to the north, but from this height even familiar landmarks seemed foreign. Miller only knew they were very deep into the unforgiving desert, a hundred miles from nowhere. Not a place to crash land or even run low on water. Miller hoped these soldier boys knew their business better than those dead dorks in the National Guard.
She examined her companions. Terrill Lee had his eyes locked on something well beyond the stark scenery that lay below the open doors. He seemed lost and miserable. Poor Darla's eyes were fluttering. She was still pale and a bit green, almost as if the blood had drained from her face. Naturally, Scratch had his eyes closed again, that scruffy head lolling with the motion of the helicopter. The son of a bitch was asleep or pretending again just to piss people off. Wells and Macumber sat stoically, both staring at the floor. Wells looked exhausted but alert. Macumber wore the thousand-yard stare of a man who'd already seen too much. They had both been relieved of their weapons—after all, the real army was now in charge. Miller couldn't tell if they were happy about that or pissed that their authority had been stripped away. Perhaps it was a little of both.
The whine of the engines deepened into a growl. The nose of their Blackhawk tipped downward. They executed a lazy turn to the left. Down below and behind them the giant shadows grew longer. The black shapes grew legs and clustered together as the group flew into the sun. Ladies and gentlemen, Miller thought, as she heard an imaginary airline pilot in her head, if you look out of the left side of the aircraft, you will see… even more fucking empty desert.
A postage stamp of cement marred the flowing desert floor. Evidence of civilization appeared, came into focus and then rushed closer. The base. As they approached, Miller saw a large parking lot and some ants with tiny trucks moving around. Despite all the activity in the area, the only thing that seemed to be attached to the large lot was a small cluster of prefabricated buildings. Why were they stopping way out here? This didn't seem to be much of an Army base. Who would offer re-supply, much less protection? She searched her memory, but couldn't remember anything about any government operation out this way.
As the helicopters came closer, she could see that there indeed wasn't anything special about this place, other than its location. It squatted in the middle of the blisteringly hot desert with no civilization an hour or more in any direction. There was nothing to see but the huge concrete slab, a gigantic wire barrier and the clump of prefab buildings. There had to be something more going on.
The Blackhawks straightened out. They formed up on their final approach toward a point well inside the tall, electrified fence that surrounded the base. Miller strained to look out the front window, but her view was blocked by the pilots and a bulkhead that separated the cockpit from the crew cabin. Frustrated, Miller watched out the side door, looking for a sign of what was to happen next. She had begun to feel helpless and more than a bit bored. The seatbelt felt more like a straight jacket than a safety harness. She wanted to take a long, hot shower, change clothing and get a decent meal. She was starving again. Inhaling all this candy and junk food was going to bust her out of the wedding dress forever, but for all the wrong reasons.
The choppers dropped straight down as if planning to land right there in the parking lot. Miller stared. The concrete rushed closer. At the last moment something vibrated below them, and the sand around the lot trembled. A long black line appeared in the dirt.
The desert floor split open.
Miller blinked to clear her vision. It wasn't an optical illusion. Sure enough, a large gap widened as gigantic doors—kind of like the Houston Astrodome on steroids—drew back like some humungous maw. There was indeed a top secret base out here, one that was clearly well funded and heavily fortified. Miller found it weird, like something out of a James Bond movie, but also rather cool. Considering what they were up against, it was nice to know the government still had a few cards to play. Miller exchanged looks with Terrill Lee. His mouth had dropped open. He shook his head, impressed. Even Scratch reacted, once he woke up and widened his eyes. Darla just kept her eyes closed.
The helicopters slowed to hover above the gigantic opening. Their pattern was perfectly timed. They all descended directly into the massive gap. They sank down into darkness. The bright desert sunlight above them dimmed when the Blackhawks touched down on an open concrete floor fifty feet below the surface. The pilots shut down as the doors far above them closed and man-made light took over. The persistent noise began to abate. Miller removed the headphones. This place was like an entire city built under the desert.
Miller took off her mirrored sunglasses. Options limited, she hung them between her breasts, right there on the dirty, bloody wedding dress. Before she could do anything else, armed soldiers boarded the helicopter. They kept her in their sights. One unbuckled her harness for her. Both were polite, but very controlling. Miller could tell that this wasn't going to be any visit to Club Med. She didn't make a fuss. Terrill Lee went along quietly, too. Scratch put up a token struggle, but it seemed mostly for appearances. Darla just stared at the floor.
Miller soaked up the surroundings as she was escorted off the helicopter and rushed toward a row of doors set into the concrete wall. The others were somewhere behind her. She gawked at the immense size of the hanger. It was big enough to hold a couple of good-sized blimps, perhaps even a 747 or two. Soldiers in small electric vehicles drove rapidly here and there, but there were also a few full-sized Humvees and what looked like a squadron of Apache gunships in the far corner. This place was an aircraft carrier sunk into a pile of rocks and sand. What the fuck is this place, anyway?
Miller and her companions were herded in the same direction, towards the pair of tall double doors at the far side of the hangar. Darla seemed even more overwhelmed than usual. She fell behind and almost wandered off. One of the soldiers took her by the arm and ushered her in the right direction. Darla was gone for good now, and in no condition to argue. Miller figured she was downright happy not to have to make any of her own decisions. She wonder
ed what the gang had done to Darla that had sapped all her will in such a fashion. Must have been pretty goddamned awful.
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.
Sh
e 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.
The Hungry Page 12
