The Hungry (Book 6): The Rule of Three (The Sheriff Penny Miller Zombie Series)

by Booth, Steven W.

  The guards began dragging Scobee out of the room. McDivitt found his balls, finally, and surged forward. “Wait!” He stepped up to Williams just as a guard inserted himself between the two of them. “Captain Sheppard is nothing to me, but I can’t let you harm any of my people. If you promise to let us go, I will have him delivered to you.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I’ll tell you when my people are safe, Charlotte. Not before.”

  Williams held his eyes for a long, uncomfortable moment. Then she turned away and flicked her wrist. Was that acceptance? Scratch thought perhaps it was, and wondered what kind of pressure Williams was under. Scratch fought down a smile. His hopes rose for a moment.

  “Take them all down to the zombie tank,” Williams said calmly, as she reached the door. “I know where Captain Sheppard is hiding.”

  The men struggled against the cuffs and kicked but the guards moved in to grab each of them. Dragged away, Scratch kept trying to think up a new plan, but got nowhere fast. He watched as Rolf slipped the grip of one of the guards and ran over to where Williams was standing. She shrank back ever so slightly, but held her ground. Scratch wondered what Rolf was up to. He didn’t try to head butt her or kick her, he just screamed in her face.

  “Repaint, thinner,” Rolf cried. “The wind is nigh!”

  Williams put her hand on Rolf’s cheek. She caressed his stubbly skin. “You were once such a bright and charming man, Rolf. I actually liked you.” Williams issued a long, theatrical sigh. “Such a loss.”

  Williams paused in the doorway. She studied Scratch for a time, and he looked back silently. Williams shook her head and then her lips pursed as if she’d tasted something sour. Her eyes darkened. She looked at the guards.

  “Make them suffer,” Williams ordered, and calmly walked away.

  Chapter Thirteen

  5 hours, 3 minutes to Stage Three (6:57pm)

  Unhhh hunhhh hunhhh… The horde of shambling, ravenous zombies approached Scratch, Rolf, McDivitt, and Scobee. The looked like drunken sailors who had been at sea too long. One of the creatures, two rows back, was an emaciated Catholic priest in full regalia, still holding a golden cup. He had the bad manners to drool on the floor. Two flight attendants in badly torn blue and white uniforms bracketed Father Spitwad. They stepped forward, their exposed flesh missing large chunks. Behind the gross old priest, one row back, a group of construction workers in hard hats smacked badly shredded lips and grunted mindlessly as if still heckling women on the street.

  “This is not good,” said Scratch.

  “I concur,” replied Rolf.

  Meanwhile, McDivitt looked dazed and Scobee started trembling. Scratch didn’t know how useful either one would be in the clutch. And the clutch was only a pubic hair away.

  Unhhh hunhh hunhh…

  Scratch turned to test the door to the zombie tank. It was closed solidly and locked up tight, so they weren’t getting out that way. No one else was assuming command, and Miller was AWOL, so Scratch stepped up. “Okay, dibs. I’ll take Father Spitwad over there. Rolf and Scobee, you got the stewardess and her evil twin. McDivitt, just keep the others off us until we put them down and can get your back again. Understood?”

  The four men gathered together clumsily, facing outward. Scratch worked to project calm. He had to come up with something brilliant, and fast, or they were all going to become human shish-kabobs. They had no weapons, and no way to find any. He worried about Miller and wondered where she was and if he would ever hold her again. Then Scratch took a deep breath and bared his teeth.

  The zombies before them shifted position, as if obeying silent orders from the group mind. Their energy seemed to grow as they focused on their prey.

  Unhhh hunhh hunh….

  The closest zombie, an albino in a Raiders football jersey and denim shorts, shambled forward with his flabby arms reaching out in a lover’s embrace. He was still groaning that awful Uhhh-hhhuuuhh-hunnhhh. Because of Miller, Scratch knew that the poor motherfucker was still conscious inside, actually aware on some level, but unable to fight his insatiable hunger. He was a terrifying object to be pitied, like a wounded and dangerous wild animal; a barely human creature who suffered from mindless despair and endless hunger, who contained a spark of a mind with no future to look toward other than the horrible, unthinkable, savage existence of the undead.

  Scratch found a strange calm creeping over him. He almost felt sorry for these unfortunate men and women.

  But, at the end of the day, he knew in his heart of hearts that he didn’t give a shit about them, or any of that humanistic crap. These undead assholes were trying to kill him, and that was a good enough reason to punch their ticket. Sometimes life was just that simple. He wanted to see Miller again, and they were in the way.

  “Here they come,” McDivitt said, stating the obvious.

  Once again, Scratch looked around for a weapon—any weapon. There was nothing in sight, thus no way out of the trap. The group—Scratch wondered for an instant if there were enough for a horde—was moving forward relentlessly, slowly, carefully. He could smell the fear on the other men, and knew the horde could as well. Time was running out and they had to think fast.

  Scratch studied the enemy as the horde shifted again and pressed closer. The zombies were the usual assortment of military personnel and civilians. Did they have a leader of some kind, some King of the Herd? Miller had mentioned the changes their species seemed to be evolving through. Scratch ran his eyes over the horde as it approached. One man stood out, a tall, dark-haired creature wearing what had once been a very expensive suit. Mr. Wall Street. He was just behind the now closest zombie, a one-armed soldier who had already covered half the distance. The man in Armani, Mr. Wall Street, was missing part of his neck, which caused his head to dangle to one side, and was missing a good section of his left leg just above the knee. He dragged the damaged foot, hopping forward on his otherwise intact leg, and groaned piteously. Unhhh hunhh hunh….

  Scratch turned first to McDivitt and then Scobee. “Okay, change in plan. Here’s the deal. I’m going after the dude in Armani. I’ll need y’all to run interference for me. Scobee, McDivitt, you take that football nut from the right side, spin him around, and push him back into the others. That ought to buy us some time. Rolf, you come with me.”

  Feeling like a war hero in action, Scratch stepped forward. The waved his arms confidently to attract attention. The horde reacted by grunting with enthusiasm. Scratch snarled at them and glared back. He looked over his shoulder with a big smile…

  …and realized he was completely alone.

  “For fuck’s sake, help me out! We don’t have time for this.” Wading into the thick of it, Scratch ducked under the football nut’s arm and pushed him aside. Then he kicked at the guy in Armani, sideways and down, neatly snapping the man’s leg at the knee. Armani collapsed at once. Scratch then reached down and put his own foot on Armani’s crotch to pin him down. He pulled at the zombie leg, foot, shoe and all. A little of the muscle and tendons still held the leg in place, but Scratch was able to tear those away and sever it with relative ease. Now he had a weapon. He swung the leg as a club, bashing the other zombies with it. He kept himself a rapidly moving target, dodging gnashing teeth and fingernails all the while hammering them with the severed leg.

  The other men stood and watched. Scobee and McDivitt seemed paralyzed with dread. Scratch couldn’t figure out what Rolf was thinking, but it wasn’t about zombies, as far as he could tell.

  Father Spitwad came close enough to grab at Scratch. Severed leg still in hand like an old ham hock, Scratch reached out for the golden cup, thinking it would make another decent weapon. He tried to pull it out of the priest’s undead hand. But Father Spitwad had other ideas, and he wouldn’t let go. So Scratch kicked two other zombies out of the way and tried again.

  “Give it here,” growled Scratch. He pulled, but the zombie, an albino, still wouldn’t let go. Scratch swung the leg at the priest’s head and sl
ammed him in the side of his skull, promptly snapping his head back to an unnatural angle. The priest slowly and eerily raised his dented head, his neck broken but his grey flesh still animated. His red eyes met Scratch’s gaze. And he moaned and drooled again. The other creatures closed around Scratch, grabbing hungrily at his clothing.

  Unhh hunhh hunh… Unhh…

  “I need some help here,” shouted Scratch. He was still kicking and bobbing and weaving around the zombies. But the other men did not come to his rescue. Scratch felt a hot rage rising up inside. He wanted to live. He focused on Miller, with her red hair streaming in the wind as they rode his motorcycle through the cold mountains of Colorado. He thought about how much he’d loved her all this time. Her memory gave him added strength.

  Scratch fought back hard. He struggled with the cleric, playing tug of war. The priest held on to the gold. Finally, Scratch stepped sideways and thrust a kick into the father’s chest, knocking him backwards into a few of the others. As usual, they all went down in a heap. Scratch crowed with glee. He held the gold cup like a prized foul ball stolen at a Colorado Rockies game. He looked back at the other men with a scowl. McDivitt was watching with his mouth open.

  Angry, Scratch rapidly retreated back to where the other men stood. Two of them were cowering. Rolf, who had switched to another TV channel in his demented mind, was calmly picking his nose. Scratch scowled and pushed the gold cup into McDivitt’s hand. Behind Scratch, the slavering horde gathered to charge again. Scratch slapped McDivitt across the face. Hard.

  “Listen up, jerk nozzle. If you die without fighting back, I’m just going to have to kill you again. Hear me?”

  McDivitt seemed about to wet his pants, and that display of weakness had held Scobee in thrall. The slap humiliated the Major but also snapped him out of it. McDivitt blushed and cringed back. Scratch felt no pity. “Have I got your attention, Princess? Good. Look, we’re cornered. We’ll need every swinging dick to escape. So get into this fight right now or I’ll fucking kill you myself, just to get it out of the way. Comprendé?”

  “Right. I’m in this fight, Scratch. What’re my orders?”

  “Use that. Kill anything that isn’t us.”

  McDivitt stared down at the gold cup in his hand. He nodded and tested its weight. “And?”

  “Start looking for a way out of here.” Scratch turned to Scobee. He handed the thinner man the severed leg and foot. “You get busy too, junior. I need you to get your brain online right fucking now.” Scobee nodded furiously. He was finally snapping out of it.

  Unhhh hunhh….

  Turning to the dazed Rolf, Scratch pulled him close. “Rolf, what’s up your ass? Stop fucking around. We are still in this fight. I need you. Penny needs you.”

  “The Chosen One is safe,” Rolf said, calmly. “My work is complete.”

  Scratch eyed the horde of zombies. They were starting to spread out, flanking the humans in a loose triangle formation. They had regrouped and were coming back in another wave. Their eerie battle cry filled the confined space with grunting noises. Scratch dragged Rolf closer to his face, so they were almost nose-to-nose. “Look, I’m glad to hear that Penny’s safe—really I am—but your work here is not complete. I saved you more than once, jackass. It’s time to return the favor.”

  Rolf looked back. Something flickered behind his sad eyes. For a moment, Scratch thought there might be someone truly at home, but the moment passed. “Yes, you have saved me before, and one of these times you must fail. Good luck, Scratch.”

  “What?”

  And with that, Rolf launched himself bodily at the nearest zombie in the new formation. He landed on a tall, bony woman in a blood-splattered housedress. The woman hissed as she went down. Rolf grabbed her skull, deftly avoided her bite, and twisted her head off at the neck. He tossed the head at the others like a basketball. A truck driver missing his right arm grabbed at Rolf, who kicked the creature’s legs out from under him and crushed his skull on the cement. Rolf seemed to be enjoying himself for some reason. He turned his head to look back, a wide grin on his face. He shouted to McDivitt with gleeful energy. “Walter, my Walter, can’t you see? Come. There’s nothing to fear here. We are blessed.”

  “Rolf,” McDivitt called. “Get the hell out of there!”

  But Rolf stayed put. He reached up and grabbed the leg of a badly wounded dead soldier, grinned, and pulled a foot out from under him. The dead soldier went down with a splat and his skull cracked on the cement as thick brain fluid drained out of his ears. The soldier was finished. He didn’t move again. Rolf held up two fingers.

  Scratch grinned wide. The old whacko was schooling them all. “Got the idea yet, McDivitt?” Scratch helped Rolf to his feet. They joined hands, and worked together to clothesline a short teenaged boy in a striped t-shirt. He flew back into the mob and brought others down. They were probably thinning the horde but it was hard to tell in all the confusion. Rolf was certainly showing that he had a package, but in his heart Scratch knew they were only buying time. They’d still have to find a way out. Scobee was fighting back. He seemed like he had found his killer instinct, but he had left it in second gear. He was pushing and shoving more than killing, but at least he wasn’t standing around useless. Scratch again called out to the Major.

  “Do something, help us find an exit.”

  McDivitt stayed near the wall as if his burst of courage had already faded. “If they bite us, we’re dead men.”

  “Gee, thanks for the update.” Scratch reached over and grabbed someone new. He attempted to swing a uniformed zombie into the rest of the crowd, but an arm came off at the shoulder. That nauseating event seemed to be happening pretty regularly. This horde must have been standing around hungry for a long, long time. The soldier reached over with his other arm to grab Scratch by the wrist. Jesus, the damned thing was strong. It pulled Scratch closer. Scratch tried hitting the thing with its own arm, but in this close, it was about as effective as swinging a bunch of wet pasta at the zombie. He tossed the arm aside and held the thing off with one palm on its chest. The soldier bit and snarled and snapped his teeth, eyes rolled back like a shark.

  “Rolf? I need you here.”

  Scratch turned to look back, but Rolf was nowhere to be seen. McDivitt and Scobee were pinned down across the room. They were fighting—finally—but doing it badly.

  “Shit. McDivitt. Scobee. Help me. I mean it. Get over here now.”

  Scratch tried jerking the zombie’s other arm out, but it held fast, and Scratch was slowed down by the struggle. Another zombie, a blonde woman in a red dress and high heels, grabbed Scratch by the shoulder. She brought her lipstick-and-gore-splattered face close to him in a macabre imitation of lover’s kiss. At the same time, someone else grabbed Scratch from behind. He was surrounded. Terror filled his stomach as he realized he might never see Miller again.

  “Son of a bitch!” Scratch elbowed the zombie behind him in the head, and then pried the other uniformed zombie’s fingers from his wrist. But now he was in the middle of the pack and he was alone and trapped and surrounded. He would have to think of something new fast, or he was good as undead.

  There was a loud clanging sound, and one of the zombies went down. Scratch turned to see McDivitt holding the gold cup with a smudge of blood and hair on it. He’d snapped out of the panic and was engaged again. Not one fucking second too soon.

  “Help me form up, McDivitt,” Scratch called. “There are too many of them unless we all work together.”

  Scobee stepped up to one of the enemy, placed his leg behind the zombie, and hip-threw it to the ground. Another approached, so Scobee kicked it in the chest, just as Scratch had done previously. He somehow stayed clear of the snapping teeth. It looked like Scobee was getting the hang of it.

  “Where the hell is Rolf?” Still fighting and kicking and punching, Scratch managed to move closer to McDivitt and Scobee. They needed to watch each other’s backs.

  “I don’t know,” replied McDivitt. He swun
g the gold cup at the nearest zombie and dented its decaying skull, but that didn’t stop it from coming full speed ahead. Scobee kicked it back like a man going for a soccer goal. The creature fell, tripping some of the others. They never seemed to catch on to that trick. They fought back to their feet and moved to close in again, but that gave the humans a few precious seconds. Time to think. It finally hit Scratch that the bulk of the horde was comprised of albinos. He spat on the floor.

  “Fucking albinos are different, men. You have to destroy their brain stem to put them down.” Then something else occurred to Scratch. “Hey, does anyone here have a lighter on them?”

  “Cigarettes will kill you, Scratch.” McDivitt didn’t smile, but at least he’d tried to make a joke.

  “No, you’re missing the point. Albinos are highly flammable.”

  McDivitt patted his pockets, but didn’t have what Scratch needed. They couldn’t be that lucky. Scratch looked around. He’d completely lost track of Rolf. He hoped the crazy bastard was still breathing.

  Scobee appeared next to the Major. “You sure you want to start a fire in here?” He held out a very serviceable-looking engraved, metal lighter.

  Major McDivitt looked around. “Maybe he’s right, Scratch. A fire will use up our oxygen. And if it doesn’t, we’ll be in the middle of an inferno pretty damned pronto.”

  “When you’ve got a better idea, let me know.” Scratch flicked the lighter open. It lit on the first try. The zombies slowed down and eyed the flame suspiciously. The sound of grunting died down. They seemed to instinctively recognize the danger. Their group mind was operating just fine. Scratch held up the shiny lighter. He walked up to the closest albino zombie and touched the flame to it.

  The thing went up like a gasoline-soaked torch. Foul smelling smoke poured out of it, and the flames immediately reached all the way to the ceiling. The creature howled in a high-pitched, hideous way and collapsed into smoldering rag and bone.