The bikers were wiped out within seconds. The choppers were deadly, precise and horrifyingly efficient. Miller weighed her options. Scratch was gone, perhaps lost in the explosion. Ragnarok had fallen to the ground. The huge man was still, huddled up and covering his ears. Miller got up. She realized she was the only one on the bus who was still standing. All the other men were either dead or curled up in the fetal position.
Now that the motorcycles engines were silent, the lower sound of approaching Blackhawks filled the church bus. Here we go again. Out of the frying pan and face first into the waiting fire…
Miller exchanged glances with Sheppard, who had now gotten up on his knees. Sheppard just shrugged. There really wasn't anything left to say. They'd have to play these new cards to stay alive.
The smoke from the wasted biker gang swirled in low spider web patterns as the Blackhawks came around to land. They parked just in front of the blue church bus. The blades whistled and sang merrily. Miller took a deep breath. She gagged at the stench of scorched human meat.
Miller stared at Terrill Lee. Said, "You two just stay the fuck down and look for a chance to run." Then she went to the open door of the bus. The torso part of Wells' shattered body blocked the step down. She gently shoved it out of the way. She gathered up her tattered dress. She went outside and looked around. Their position was ringed by heavily armed choppers. The blue bus itself was surrounded by wrecked iron and backlit by blazing fires. The night air reeked.
Scratch was nowhere to be seen. Ragnarok lay crumpled up in a heap a few yards to her right. As Miller watched, he tried to crawl away. She just shook her head and turned her attention to the Blackhawks. Miller knew she'd have to negotiate to save the others. Make some kind of deal in exchange for her cooperation.
Four men exited from the helicopter on the right, and five stepped down from the one on the left. One man, the tallest, was clearly in command. Sheppard left the bus against orders. He appeared behind her. Whispered, "Oh, shit."
Miller knew, but didn't want to know. She turned to him with a questioning look on her face, maybe hoping for a different answer.
"Sanchez." The man on the left.
Miller walked away from the bus. Sheppard followed a yard or so behind. Terrill stayed hiding. Miller set herself. She stood waiting for the colonel to approach. Sanchez took his time, examining the surroundings and then taking in Rag hunkered there in the dirt, covering his ears. With one finger he ordered a man to take Rag prisoner. Sanchez absorbed Miller as she stood there, at ease in her bloody wedding dress, hair whipping in the rotor wash from the helicopters. He and his men stopped a few yards away. He was just far enough that it would be difficult for Miller to attack without being stopped by the soldiers.
"Sheriff Miller," he said, "Do you remember me? I'm Colonel Andre Sanchez."
"Sure. And now I know quite a bit about you, actually, Colonel." Her tone was neutral, controlled.
"Of course you do," he said. "I'm sure Sergeant Sheppard briefed you thoroughly. Hello, Sergeant. You've looked better."
"Colonel," said Sheppard. Miller looked back at him. Her eyes sent a question Sheppard could not answer. Terrill Lee was still nowhere to be seen. Was he hiding on the bus as ordered? Her mind fogged. Was Terrill Lee okay? Had he been wounded or killed as well? That thought bothered her more than she cared to admit. Sanchez was still eyeing Sheppard. He was pissed.
"You disappoint me, Sergeant. I had high hopes for your career."
Sheppard actually managed to laugh. "I really didn't sign up to be the cause of Armageddon, Colonel."
"True, but it appears we are." Sanchez turned back to Miller. "Sheriff, would you be so kind as to accompany me back to the base? We have many things to discuss. This won't take long."
"Or maybe I could just snap your neck here and now," Miller said. "That would keep things short and sweet."
Sanchez sighed theatrically. "Sheriff, you wound me. Many people have died in the last few days. You strike me as the kind of person who would do anything to avoid even more senseless death. Sheppard is a traitor, but also a genius. And I'm sure that together we can find a way to end this unfortunate epidemic."
"Oh, you mean the unfortunate epidemic of the living dead that you started with your little Frankenstein experiments?"
Sanchez nodded. "Yes, that one." He sighed as if making up his mind. "You know, it would be a shame if your ex-husband, who we noted is on the bus over there, were to be killed tonight."
"He's already dead," said Sheppard. "I killed him myself."
Miller blinked. "You what?"
"Better that way than let him end up as some kind of zombie experiment. So that threat won't work, sir. What else have you got?"
Sanchez scratched his chin, pondering that statement. Miller looked back at Sheppard, but his face remained impassive.
"You're bluffing," said Sanchez. "I, however, am not."
Sanchez signaled one of the soldiers, who spoke into his shoulder microphone. Miller tensed. The Apaches above were still rumbling around. One turned sharply, coming in for another strafing run. Reluctantly, Miller and Sheppard jogged away from the bus, moving towards the soldiers and the broken Ragnarok, who was kneeling, now in cuffs and sobbing.
A moment later, when Sheppard was safe, Miller turned to go back. It was too late, and they all knew it. Miller stopped. She watched helplessly as the bus was shredded by 30mm rounds. The barrage quickly transformed the old church bus into a hunk of steaming wires and strips of blue tin. Goodbye, Terrill Lee. And fuck this… Miller's muscles felt engorged with blood. Her chest swelled. Her senses sharpened further. She calculated how far away each of the men were, decided who to kill first and how to go out like a true warrior.
Miller heard the rush of the soldiers before she saw them. The first one flew at her like a linebacker trying to stop a touchdown. Miller sidestepped him easily, and he landed face first on the smoking asphalt. The next came at her with a club, but in her heightened state of awareness, it seemed like she could grow trees waiting for that club to fall. She snatched it out of his hand, jabbed him in the gut with it, and hit him on the shoulder, just at the base of the neck. Something cracked, and not in a good way. He fell to the ground in a heap.
The sense of movement behind her caught Miller's attention. She turned to face three more attackers. They had her at rifle point, but they were afraid of her now—she could tell by the sickly-sweet adrenaline stench of their sweat. Miller was a goddess, she was done being afraid, and she flowed up to the first one in a blur, snatched the weapon out of his hand, swept his leg out from under him with the butt of the rifle. She turned to the other two. One of them smiled slightly, which made no sense to Miller at all. He should be ready to piss his pants, she thought. Shit! His eyes were on something behind her. She turned again, but this time not quickly enough. Eight soldiers gang-rushed her all at once, big bodies slamming into hers, hands on her arms and legs, grabbing her around her waist. One of them groped her breasts like some nervous teen finally making it to second base. Miller worked to throw them off, but as a group they were too heavy. She struggled against the pile, lifting hundreds of pounds inches off the ground. She screamed obscenities, called out for both Scratch and Terrill Lee, and managed to kick one of the attackers hard enough that she heard his shin snap. He shrieked and let go. Miller kept fighting, her big heart bursting, emotions torn asunder by grief, but eventually the soldiers managed to secure her by the hands and feet. They stretched out her arm, and one of them stabbed her in the bicep with a needle. A rosy glow drifted up into Miller's brain. The will to fight finally drained out of her.
What's the use… The world is ending… We're all dying…
Miller had gone limp. They dragged her to one of the Blackhawks. They strapped her down onto a stretcher, which they then secured to the floor of the helicopter with small links of chain. It was all over but the shouting. Miller fought to keep her eyes open. Sheppard followed her onto the chopper. He was now handcuffed and
bleeding from a wound to his head. A moment later, Ragnarok was brought on board as well. He was bloody and charred, and his teeth were chattering, but now the dumb bastard couldn't stop talking.
"You God-damned cock-sucking trigger-happy jarhead fucks!" Rag screamed. They plopped him down on the deck a few inches away from Miller's head. "I'll tear off your heads and piss down your necks! I'll cut out your eyes and skull-fuck you six ways from Sunday. I'll fuck you up so bad your potted plant will die. Let me go, Roger Ramjet! I'll…" That was the last thing he said. One of the bored soldiers injected him. The good shit hit his system. Rag's head lolled to the side. His eyes lost focus.
Thunder filled the night again. The sleek helicopters revved up and took off, speeding southeast. Eyes closed, Miller actually cried a bit. Poor Lance Wells, Terrill Lee and now even Scratch were gone. After all that effort, she and Sheppard had been recaptured anyway. They were headed back to the enemy's base. They'd lost the war, and there wasn't a goddamned thing Miller could do about it.
She passed out.
SIXTEEN
The harsh world intruded on her comfortable silence. They were somewhere in the military base. The overhead lights flickered, perhaps from a power surge. Miller stayed quiet, willing the drugs from her system. Her eyelids went dark and pink again. She didn't want to open her eyes yet. Her body bumped and twitched and she could hear the grinding squeal of metal wheels. So she was on a gurney, strapped down tight. She risked a peek. They were wheeling her across the helicopter hangar. Soldiers scurried to and fro everywhere, efficiently but this time with a hint of panic in their movements. Their world, like everyone else's, was suddenly spinning out of control.
Serves you fuckers right.
Miller decided to play possum. She was disoriented, head fogged from the drugs they had injected. She needed to gather herself. This was bad. She wanted to care where they were taking her, wanted to fight back, especially to rip that Sanchez dirtbag apart like greasy fried chicken, but she didn't have the will or the muscle strength. Sadness swept over her like a wave of warm salt water. Everyone she had worked so hard to save was gone. Terrill Lee, Scratch, Wells, that poor girl Darla, her deputy back at the jail… She had lost so many others along the way, even those poor zombies who'd died again by the hundreds. Only Sheppard was left, a captive who would be considered a traitor, and that meant he was screwed, blued and tattooed. As for herself, Miller knew that they were going to turn her into a guinea pig, poke her like a pincushion. She couldn't have cared less. She felt like a total loser.
The only thing that she did care about was her stomach. She was starving. It had been bad for hours, days, but this was the worst ever. She couldn't remember being so hungry in her entire life. Put together with the drugs, the horrible hunger sapped her strength. It made her wish that she was home, with a refrigerator full of food to prepare, and no more zombies or sociopath genius military dickheads to contend with. The whole world had backed up the toilet, and there wasn't anything she could do about that. She just wanted to eat.
She kept her eyes closed. Miller felt the two men push her onto an elevator. One of the soldiers was chewing gum with his mouth open, making annoying popping noises. The other soldier slammed her into the elevator car as if irritated. The continuous, gentle pinging sound told her they were going down ten or more floors. The doors opened again. She risked another peek and saw the same sterile walls she remembered. Cubicle doors kept rolling by. Time passed, and Miller began to regain her strength.
Eventually they stopped and unlocked a chamber. They had arrived in another large, sterile, stainless steel room. Someone joined them. Miller peeked and saw an orderly in scrubs. Once inside, she was lifted onto a table. She kept her eyes open. They noticed she was awake. The orderly, a young man with acne scars and bushy eyebrows, seemed sweaty and scared. He shined a light into her eyes. Miller blinked and looked away. Her response seemed to satisfy him, and the orderly went away. The guards exited, one still popping his gum. The feeling of panic remained in the air like static electricity.
Miller was alone again. The odd sadness returned. She reviewed all the times she'd been nasty to Terrill Lee and decided she was an ungrateful little bitch. Sadly, she recalled his marriage proposal, the bozo going down on one knee, right outside their favorite restaurant. Poor Scratch had fought for her, and she'd let him walk out alone to his death. And that poor kid Wells. Miller had seen so much death and destruction in such a short period of time. She wanted to be a little girl again, sitting in her Dad's lap, playing with his whiskers.
A face appeared over her. A man, handsome and cruel. Sanchez. He was close enough that that the garlic on his breath and his rank flop sweat were overpowering. The stench sickened her. She turned her head away and closed her eyes tightly, a little child avoiding the boogeyman. Miller concentrated on a pleasant memory, riding her pony Blackie on a summer morning, galloping through waves of alfalfa. She didn't want this piece of shit Sanchez to be the last thing she ever saw.
"Sheriff?" Sanchez was whispering in her ear. "I know you can hear me."
"Fuck you, skeezix," she said, suddenly remembering the obscure insult Scratch had used earlier that day. That one's for you, Scratch.
"Ah… There we are." Sanchez sat back. "I knew that the sedative wouldn't keep you down for long. You are strong, like me, I can see that. Sheriff, you are a miracle, a perfect specimen. May I call you Penny?"
"May I call you asshole?"
Sanchez smiled. "Penny, you are the first of your kind. Be proud."
Miller stared back, willing him a heart attack on the spot. She fixed her gaze on the ceiling. He stepped away for a moment. Miller could track him by the sound of his footsteps on tile. She heard him tapping on a computer keyboard. She tested her bonds. They were tight as a red state accountant on tax day, but she was shaking off the sedatives, feeling stronger by the moment. Patience. Sanchez crossed the small room to stand next to her again.
"Look at me for one moment, if you please."
Buying time, Miller turned her head. She opened her eyes. The room wasn't small at all, not like her previous quarters. This one was large—perhaps thirty feet on a side—with medical equipment, computers and flat screen monitors lining the pristine walls. She sensed something new. There was another person in the room, off to the side. Miller turned her head back and blinked.
Sheppard was perched on a metal stool in the corner. His hands were cuffed behind him. He was scowling at Sanchez, looking mightily pissed off. The sedative was gone now, because Miller could empathize with that look. Her sadness melted away. If there was one emotion inside her that she could now identify, it was a pure, high-octane rage. She tested her bonds again. Maybe with just a little more time... She held herself in check. She had to buy a few more minutes. The tension on the Army base was obvious. Miller wanted to hear what Sanchez would say.
Sheppard caught her eye. He shook his head and looked down at the floor, as if to say that whatever was going to happen next probably wasn't worth dying for. Miller didn't agree.
Sanchez said, "I need your full attention, Penny."
"You're like a fart in an elevator, Sanchez. You already have my full attention."
"Good. There's something I want you to see. I think it will clarify why you are here and exactly what it is we want of you."
Sanchez had a small remote control in one hand. He used it to activate one of the giant flat screens. It came alive in vivid high definition. Miller saw it was a view from a helicopter or some other aircraft, probably shot with a forward-looking infrared camera. The FLIR image held and then bounced around disconcertingly, back and forth as if the aircraft were experiencing turbulence, but what the image showed was clear enough. Miller jerked, making the gurney squeal.
Holy shit…
They were coming. They lurched forward in clumps and ragged rows like panicked soldiers used as cannon fodder, thousands upon thousands of them. One would fall and be mindlessly trampled by the others. Missing lim
bs, gaping wounds, visible entrails that roped out like pasta, nothing slowed them down, much less stopped them. They moved as if with one mind, hunting someone or something, coming right at the camera, at the soldiers, right at the secret base. So many. Dear Christ so many of them out there…
Zombies. An army of the undead was on the march. The flickering, multi-colored Christmas tree computer readouts that accompanied the horrifying image showed that the creatures were indeed headed south across the desert. Miller studied Sheppard. He was watching this too, and the deep shame on his face was palpable. They had unleashed hell upon the earth. Miller looked back at Sanchez. For his part, the Colonel watched impassively, his chiseled TV star features calm enough to be fully psychotic. He either didn't understand what this meant to the future of mankind, or he just didn't care. Miller suspected the latter.
The camera view shifted abruptly. Now even more zombies groups could be seen, twitching and shuffling, all making steady time. The computers indicated that this group was coming from the west. They were working in concert somehow. The creatures were converging on the base, as if with one mind, closing in on something that lay hidden out in the middle of the desert. Now the tension in the soldiers made perfect sense. Hell was coming, on bare and bloody feet. The creatures were massing to assault the base where it had all began. How the hell did they know? Somehow they did. And they were on the march. Coming here, where she and Sanchez and Sheppard sat waiting like lambs to be slaughtered.
"Aw, it looks like the little ones are finally coming home to visit their big old Daddy," said Miller. "Sanchez, it just beats the shit out of me how they know it's you, but somehow they do."
The Hungry Page 18
