“No. We needed a damn prescription, just like you said we would. Civilization is still holding up around here. And we could only find one vet, but they weren’t in a prescribing mood, at least not without us bringing in our animal. We had to take off before we were noticed.”
Sheppard nodded. “Okay, well, the fresh bandages and peroxide will have to do for now. That will at least slow down the sepsis, if nothing else.” He sat up, and lifted his shirt. “Have a look.”
Sheppard’s right side was covered in blackened, bloody bandages. Miller gently pulled the tape back and exposed a nasty, livid wound. Sheppard still insisted on calling the violation a flesh wound—meaning it hadn’t hit any bones or major organs—but she knew that didn’t make it less serious or dangerous. The smell of infection was overwhelming now. If Miller hadn’t already spent so much time around zombies and other dead and undead things, she probably would have retched. They were all far too jaded for that now, so she just went about the business of cleaning up the nasty wound.
“We gotta get you to a hospital,” Miller said absently, as she drenched the wound with hydrogen peroxide. Sheppard hissed as the pain struck. The torn flesh bubbled and turned yellow as the harsh chemical bleached the skin and muscle. Miller remembered, for just a moment, her ex-husband Terrill Lee, a veterinarian with a penchant for weird interests, referring to it almost exclusively as rocket fuel, which Miller found annoying at best. She smiled vaguely. Some memories hurt more than others, like some wounds and some medications. There was still a tender spot in her heart for Terrill Lee, but he was dead and gone and there was nothing she could do about that except to try to remember the nicer things. Returning to the job at hand, she wiped the excess liquid off Sheppard’s side with a piece of gauze, and noted how much blood came with it. Sheppard’s wound was less than a day old, but he was already in pretty bad shape.
“Karl, if they have a drug store, they gotta have an urgent care around here somewhere. Like I said, this place isn’t completely uncivilized. Can’t you make up a suitable story?”
Sheppard smiled, though whether it was from amusement or to cover the pain, Miller couldn’t tell. “You’re a sheriff, Penny. A gunshot wound means an automatic report to the authorities. Things are still pretty normal around here and they still have the law to follow. The last thing we need is to attract the attention of anyone even remotely connected with the government. If they find out we are this close to the source of the zombie virus, they’ll blow up half of Idaho just to get to us. Hell, remember the cops? And the bikers? And the drones? We must have sucked up to the right god for that missile to have missed us.”
“We’re lucky they run a clown show, but we’ll get even. When the time comes, we are going to make contact with the people who created this mess, and we already know that they’re more than vaguely connected to the government.” He lowered his shirt. “Tell me more about our visitors.”
“We rescued them from a wrecked government prison bus full of zombies. They claim to be part of some kind of a kind of militia around here. I’m trying to make contact with their leadership through them. I hope it was a wise move.”
“I’m not sure I want to think about militias and buses and zombies right now. We’ve lost so many.”
“I know.”
“I even miss Psycho sometimes.”
Miller looked away. “And Rat.” That was an emotional wound that was still fresh. Miller completed bandaging Sheppard’s side, and looked back as he lowered his shirt again. “There you go, Karl.”
“I’m hungry.”
Miller pulled some food out of her pack, a plastic zipped bag of sliced salami and two bags of potato chips. “Something should happen soon. Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dumber over there called in some transportation. It’s gonna meet us here in a bit, so you might want to be ready.”
“Penny? Are you sure that’s a good idea? How do you know we can trust those guys?”
Miller nodded. “No, I don’t know I can trust them. It’s just… something about them makes me think they have a part to play in all this.”
“It’s not like you to get philosophical, Penny.”
Miller ignored him. “They’re working for some fella named Major McDivitt. I’m hoping he can make everything click together.”
“McDivitt? Why do I feel like I should know that name?” mused Sheppard as he chewed his food and washed it down.
“Now don’t you start making things more convoluted, Karl. With everything going cockeyed with my intuition, I need you to be the slow and steady one.”
“Meaning what?” said Sheppard around a mouth full of salami.
“Meaning we all stay armed and watch the fuck out.”
“Terrific.”
Miller patted his shoulder. She rose from the back of the police cruiser and stretched. She looked around. Bean and Scobee were sitting quietly on their hay bale, watching the group and talking softly. Scratch and Rolf were nowhere to be seen. Miller went to the far corner of the small barn, but couldn’t find either of her friends. She looked over her shoulder. Sheppard had finished eating and had lowered his legs. He was watching over the two newcomers, with a Glock held loosely in his right hand.
“Scratch? Where’d you get to?”
“Up here,” called Scratch softly.
“Shall I climb up?”
“Just wait down there. We’re coming to you.” There was some shuffling from above, then silence.
Then Miller heard the same bird call that Scratch had given when they arrived. Dudley growled. Miller’s instincts flared and her stomach clenched.
“Somebody’s out there.” Miller looked at Bean and Scobee. She whispered. “Could that be your friends?”
“Maybe,” Bean said. He looked uncertain and worried. “Seems awful fast though.”
“Could be looters,” offered Scobee.
Miller froze. “Looters? I thought we were back in civilization.”
“Not really. Sometimes the shit hits the fan,” Scobee said. “Ever since Nevada became a National Disaster Management Zone, the whackos and criminals have come out in full force. They rove around in packs at night and skirmish with folks, looking for food, booze, and women.”
Miller whistled back with one long, descending tone. It wasn’t as good as the call Scratch could do, but it generally got the message across. Concerned, she went to the passenger door of the police cruiser and retrieved a somewhat unimpressive H&K MP5. It was a weapon considerably less intimidating and accurate than the M-4s she had been running into more and more in her travels. Nevertheless, it would do some serious damage, and at the moment, that’s what mattered. Damage.
Miller trotted over to the side door to the outside, stood and waited. She gave another bird whistle, this one ascending. She was asking a question.
Scratch gave no response. That was worse than if he had responded with the danger signal. Miller waved for Scobee and Bean to get down on the floor.
The situation changed as she heard a soft sound that was unmistakably the charging lever of an automatic rifle being cycled. Miller checked her own weapon to see if it was properly loaded, and when she was sure that it was, she risked a peek outside through a slot they had cut right next to the door itself.
Outside, three armed figures had appeared in the shadows and moonlight. They were standing quite close, right on the other side of Miller’s door. If they weren’t Bean’s and Scobee’s friends, they were in for one hell of a surprise. They made no move to close the distance or find cover. Perhaps they hadn’t yet realized that someone was inside the building.
Miller stepped back from the door. She didn’t relish shooting the living. She had been professionally trained to use deadly force when necessary, of course. That was just a part of her career in law enforcement. She was a hell of a lot more comfortable putting the undead out of their misery, rather than shooting at living humans. Still, she would do so without hesitation if it came down to that. She had to hope that it wouldn’t. She was begin
ning to feel like living human beings were an endangered species these days.
“Did you hear that?” It was a male voice on the other side of the door. Miller caught a slight trace of a southern accent, maybe Texan?
“Yeah, I heard that, doofus,” another man said in a lower voice. “Relax, keep your voice down. It’s just your brains rattling around.”
The third voice was female, also southern. “Are you sure this is where they went, the ones we saw with them backpacks? They’ll hear us talking if we don’t shut up.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it’s them, and yes they might. So you just shut up, too.”
There were only a few of them, and they didn’t sound so bright, but Miller still didn’t like the scenario, especially once these three split up, which seemed likely any moment. It was too dark to see much, even with the vehicle lights on inside the small barn, and she couldn’t figure how to properly coordinate their response in the event of an attack. She was not in communication with Scratch, which meant she was just as likely to be shooting at him as the suspects once they’d surrounded Miller and her people.
Miller called them suspects in her mind because she just couldn’t bring herself to think of them as the enemy, as some of her military friends would. They were alive in a world rapidly being devoured by the undead, though much of the country was still unaware of that fact. Miller had also been trained to think of men and women with guns as suspects, not yet convicted, and that posture always put her mind at ease.
“Yippee-ki-yay,” Miller whispered to herself. The suspects weren’t going to just go away. She prepared for their forced entry, and readied herself to shoot. Scobee watched her with nervous eyes. Bean wisely hunkered down and pulled Scobee down to lie flat on the straw. Everyone waited.
Nothing happened.
“Quiet!” said one of the men outside said, all of a sudden. Miller could hear the faint sound of an approaching car engine. “Someone’s coming.”
To Miller’s delight, the suspects broke off the engagement. She heard their footsteps running away, the vehicle got closer, and then light poured through from under the barn door. A horn honked twice, short and quick.
“That’s Judy and Leland for sure,” said Bean, loudly enough to have given away their position if the looters had still been at the door. He had a grin on his face for the first time. Scobee slapped the barn wall with delight. A wave of dust and straw drifted down to land on his thinning hair.
Miller glared at the two men. “You better be right, jackass, because if you’re wrong and it’s someone else…”
Scratch called out, interrupting. “Are you guys expecting one of those brown delivery trucks?”
Bean answered. “That’s Judy, all right.” Now he was grinning from ear to ear.
“One second.” Miller peeked out through the spy hole near the barn door. No one else was on the premises. Only the truck’s lights could be seen. Their unwelcome visitors seemed to have vanished into the night to find another place to plunder. The coast indeed appeared clear.
Miller took a deep breath. “All right, Bean. Let’s go on out there and meet your friends.”
Chapter Three
27 hours, 19 minutes to Stage Three (8:41pm)
Scratch slid forward on the long bench, which was bolted to the floor. Something squeaked and the seat of his jeans seemed to polish the cold metal. “You mean you’re like a real doctor?”
The balding African-American man nodded. He was in is fifties. He’d introduced himself as Dr. Leland Satcher. He whistled as he examined Sheppard’s wound. They all rocked from side to side as they rode quickly in the back of the brown delivery truck. The driver took it easy, knowing that a hurt man was on board, but the back roads were still rough and sometimes unpaved.
“A doc for humans?” continued Scratch, as if amazed and pleased at a spiritual level.
Leland looked up, mildly annoyed. “That’s right. Now if you’d please let me finish my work, I think I might have an idea of what I can do for Captain Sheppard here.”
“Well, shit. I think that’s a first for our ragged little family, is all.” Scratch was holding forth for some reason. Miller watched the show, feeling both relieved and somewhat amused. “We’ve had medical men onboard, of course, but Karl here’s only a technician, and Sheriff Miller’s ex-husband Terrill Lee, rest his soul, was just a good, old-fashioned country vet.” Scratch watched Leland examine Sheppard. Then he raised his arm over his head at an awkward, unnatural angle. “You know, Doc, I get this pain whenever I…”
“Save the nightclub act, Scratch,” Miller said, deadpan and refusing to laugh. “Let the man work. We need Karl up and running as soon as possible.” Scratch looked like he was about to ask another question. Miller read his face. “I’m sick to death of dragging his sorry, injured ass all over North America. We’ve got a job to do and I need him.”
“You okay back there?” The driver was a strawberry blonde woman with tattooed arms who was introduced as Judy Payette. Bean had not taken his eyes off of her since they’d boarded the truck. She turned her head away from watching the darkened road for a second and looked back at Miller. Her hands never left the wheel. “If you don’t mind me asking, what exactly are you folks doing up here, anyway?”
Bean, who sat next to Judy up in the cab, patted her hand in an absent minded way. “They’re all escapees from Crystal Palace, Judy. It seems our Captain Sheppard here was one of the show-runners down there.”
Judy glanced at Miller, Scratch, and Sheppard again. This time she nodded knowingly. Miller took in the group dynamic. Judy carried herself like a woman with authority, and was at ease with the men. The couple kept their relationship subdued, but didn’t seem overly worried about hiding it either. Judy studiously ignored Rolf, as did the others. They had decidedly mixed feelings about him, except for Scobee, who seemed the gentlest soul of the lot. He was open enough to smile at Rolf and nod once in a while as if happy to see him back.
For his part, Rolf just sat hunched over on the end of the bench, clutching Dudley around the neck, like a child holding onto a precious toy for security. Leland was a medical man from his well-trimmed fingernails to his decent suit and tie. He was someone quite reliable but unlikely to willingly pick up a weapon in a street fight. Miller made a mental note to get the rest of the soap opera clear ASAP. Rolf had a history with these people, and she wanted to know exactly what it was in order to better protect her friends. There seemed to be one hell of a lot going on.
Miller was very uncomfortable with Bean’s reasonably accurate knowledge of who they were and where they’d been. They hit a pothole and the truck bounced her butt an inch off the cold bench. “Would you mind explaining just how you came know all about us, Bean?”
“Be patient, Sheriff. I’m going to leave the storytelling to Major McDivitt, if you don’t mind.” A newly polished .44 Magnum sat in Bean’s lap. He wasn’t trying to be threatening, but now Miller couldn’t just ignore its presence. Bean was sending a quiet message. Now back with his own, Bean carried himself like a man who could become dangerous in a panicked heartbeat. He was not a leader, but a reliable soldier who would do his job under fire. Miller trusted her intuition again and looked away, deciding not to press the question.
“We’re going to be at the compound in about five minutes, folks.” Judy winked at Bean. She slowed and entered a residential area. The lights were off in most of the houses. A few dogs barked. She turned the truck onto a side street and a block later, onto a narrow, private road that ran to the left. Miller noticed Judy had driven in circles, perhaps as a security measure in case they’d been followed, perhaps to throw Miller’s group off about exactly where the compound was located. Miller had tried to keep the route straight in her head but was forced to admit she was completely lost. All she could figure was that they were somewhere northeast of the barn, and maybe a half hour away. She had no reason to think they’d need to go back there again, but Miller had good reason to distrust feeling dependent
on strangers.
She shot Scratch a look and smiled. Scratch was leaning against the wall of the truck, pretending to be asleep. He had a tendency to pull that one from time to time. His mind was still active, no doubt about that.
Miller tried not to think about what Judy had meant by the word compound. This was supposed to be some kind of militia, but they could just as easily be a cult or something, perhaps worshipping this Major McDivitt? She’d had her fill of cults and charismatic leaders. Father Abraham and his zombies had offered enough nightmares for a lifetime and a few reincarnations. His bones and those of most of his followers now lay deep in the mountains in Nevada. That had been ugly, but Miller had no regrets about her dealings with Abraham and his savages. She had regrets to spare, but not about that bunch.
Miller stretched and took another look around. She watched Bean and Judy whisper, Scobee and Leland talking with Sheppard, and then Scratch feigning sleep. She studied Rolf, who hugged Dudley and rocked back and forth muttering like a scared kid waking up from a nightmare. The compound was moments away. She wondered what secrets she was about to learn there.
Miller held onto her H&K, which she kept pointed at the floor. She checked the safety for the fifth time—not to make sure that it was set, but that she could release it instantly if necessary. She’d learned a lot in just a half hour by observing things carefully. Sleepy little Mountain Home, Idaho, supposedly unaware of the severity of the zombie plague, already had compounds and looters and stray zombies of their own. Disaster was not far away, despite their benign surroundings. Anyone forming a militia had to know that. How much else did they know? Miller leaned back. She kept her concerns private for the time being.
Scratch caught her eye and winked. She patted her rifle to remind Scratch to stay sharp. He smiled and nodded, then closed his eyes again.
For his part, Leland was either ignoring the tension in the van, or was oblivious to it. He smiled at Sheppard. “You’ll need about fifty stitches, Captain, and probably a couple of weeks’ worth of antibiotics, accompanied by some serious bed rest. In the end you should be fine now that we’ve cleaned this up. You did a good job on yourself, but that was a serious gash. You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”
The Hungry (Book 6): The Rule of Three (The Sheriff Penny Miller Zombie Series) Page 4
