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

by Booth, Steven W.

  “The armory is at the end of the hall, just past your room, Captain. It’s the rallying point. Everyone who can make it will be there.” Christa’s voice never wavered, but Sheppard could tell she was scared to death. She had to have been worried sick about her own people. He could tell she was a brave woman but close to the edge. Sheppard had the gun. It was up to him to get them both to the armory alive.

  “Okay, Christa. We’ll get there. I’ve got it under control.”

  Sheppard turned on the flashlight for the briefest of moments, pointed at the floor. He did that just to get his bearings and then doused it again. Ten paces straight ahead, then a right turn, and then, he knew, it was a hundred and fifty feet or so to the end of the hall. That was the rallying point.

  Christa put her hand on his shoulder. Holding the gun in one hand, and the flashlight in the other, Sheppard moved forward. He didn’t have enough hands to hold onto Christa. He wanted to keep a firm grip on her but had to trust she would stay with him. He needed her there. If someone approached from her side and behind him, she would see them first, and Sheppard would have a few precious seconds to react. Christa was breathing shallowly, rapidly. He waited for her to shake off the fear. She took two deep breaths.

  “Keep moving, Christa.”

  They went further into the darkness with Sheppard in the lead. He started out more slowly. Almost immediately, Christa bumped into his back. Sheppard knew she was back to normal when she whispered in his ear. “Come on, Captain. We haven’t much time.”

  They heard a racket from just outside. A trash can lid clattered to the pavement and spun around and around before coming to rest in the night. A window somewhere down the long corridor shattered. A man with a deep voice grunted in pain, and someone else whispered urgently for him to shut the fuck up. Sheppard got the message from the universe loud and clear: Better pick up the pace before someone ends you. Something struck him as strange. Well-trained soldiers probably wouldn’t have stumbled, much less cursed out loud, but then nothing was the same here in zombie land. Discipline was breaking down everywhere. Questions whirled through Sheppard’s mind. Perhaps some of these men had been drinking. Perhaps they were just on their own as looters, with no one in charge. Most importantly, had they already found and murdered the others?

  Sheppard sped up. He moved quickly to the corner of the corridor. He poked his head around the corner, just in case any NV goggle-equipped bad guys were out there. Perhaps they would shoot at him and thus give away their position. But no shot was taken. He wasn’t sure what that proved, if anything.

  Realizing he’d need to take a risk, Sheppard raised the flashlight up. He flicked a beam of light down to the other end of the long hallway. He turned it again quickly and immediately dropped low.

  Something had definitely moved that time. Someone had seen him. Sheppard held the flashlight high over his head. He clicked it on. He looked around the corner at knee level. He saw a man in a black uniform aiming a silenced weapon. There was a soft tap-click sound and the flashlight exploded in his hand. Sheppard jumped back. He had seen enough. He withdrew his head, took a deep breath, and popped out into the open. He released part of the breath and fired at the spot where the man in the black uniform had just been standing.

  Two bright flashes—accompanied by incredibly loud blasts—shattered the darkness. Sheppard could again see a dark figure at the other end of the hall, clear as could be. He fired two more shots right at that spot.

  Sheppard heard the grunting sound of a man in pain, someone who didn’t want give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d scored a hit. He’d been trained to stay quiet if wounded. Sheppard felt another surge of adrenaline and satisfaction. Serves you right, fucker! Jesus, Sheppard was actually happy about shooting someone. He was growing as out of control as Miller and Scratch. No surprise that they had rubbed off on him after all these months.

  Christa whispered, “Captain?”

  Now that his hand was freed from holding the ruined flashlight, Sheppard was able to take Christa by the wrist. “Follow me. This isn’t going to be easy.”

  “I’m ready.”

  “Now.” Sheppard and Christa shot out from their corner into the hall, and as they moved through the shadows, Sheppard fired two warning shots. He had no fantasies that he’d get as lucky as the last time, but his shots did light up the corridor for a moment, just long enough for him to register that there was only one man down there, just the man he’d already hit. The pain in Sheppard’s side was searing and bright, but he’d just have to ignore that. He had to make it a mere fifty yards down the corridor and they would be almost to the rallying point and the comfort of their support troops. At least so they hoped.

  “Go!”

  And together they ran. Sheppard sucked in air like he had been drowning, but he still felt like he couldn’t get enough oxygen. The pain in his side tore into him, but he did not flinch or lessen his pace. He had to fight through it. Time stretched like a rubber band and seemed to slow down with the feeling of being exposed. Christa bumped against the wall and it knocked the knife from her hand. It clattered on the tiles.

  Wham! Something hit Sheppard across the lower torso, and the wind was knocked out of him. He floundered for a second, kicking and gasping. He registered what had happened. He had not been shot. Someone had hit him with a flying tackle and landed on top of him. The gun was knocked from Sheppard’s grip. A gloved fist slammed into the side of his head. Sheppard fought hard but he was on his back and at a disadvantage. He kicked with his legs and swung his fist but the other man blocked his blow. The man hit him again, on the right temple, and the world spun.

  Somewhere in the darkness Christa was searching around and moaning in frustration. She couldn’t find her lost weapon.

  Momentarily disoriented, Sheppard tried desperately to think fast, to come up with something that would save his life. Only one option appeared. Whoever had hit him could see, and he couldn’t, so Sheppard needed to change that part of the equation. He’d have to even the odds. Sheppard bucked like a bronco and shot a punch at the man, but this time his fist hit Kevlar and did no damage. Another blow, to Sheppard’s nose this time, came from a gloved fist. Stars danced in front of his eyes. He reached up and grabbed desperately for the bastard’s night-vision goggles. His fingers found purchase.

  The man on top of Sheppard grabbed him by the throat with both hands. He started to choke Sheppard, who almost let go of the goggles to attack the man’s hands. Instead, Sheppard quickly shot a knuckle punch at where the man’s throat would be, striking three times in quick succession, hoping against hope to hit the right spot. The man flinched back. Sheppard struck again.

  The man started to say, “Captain Sheppard, we…” but then never got a chance to finish. The fourth and final punch landed perfectly. It wasn’t enough to get the man to let go completely, but he did loosen his grip and gag. Sheppard tore the NV goggles off the man’s head, and used that to smash the man’s hands free. He could hear the man choking for air. He wound up cutting his own cheek with some metal in the goggles, but the man finally let go. Meanwhile, Christa was still making small pain-laden sounds in the dark.

  Sheppard was able to breathe again. He shoved the man straddling him back up into a seated position. They both involuntarily stopped fighting for a moment to struggle for air. Sheppard had the NV goggles, which wouldn’t do him any good unless he could get them on. He doubted the hurt man would give him that much time. So instead of trying to maneuver the goggles onto his head, Sheppard reached into his pocket. He grabbed one of the now useless magazines. Its cold, steel weight was somehow comforting. He knew exactly what to do.

  “Captain?” Christa was close behind him now. She sounded frightened, and he didn’t blame her, but Sheppard wasn’t feeling scared anymore, not at all. He was furious and the anger gave him strength.

  The man still sat on his chest but had recovered. Holding the magazine in his hand, Sheppard swung his arm around in a vicious arc. He hi
t the man in the side of the head with his fortified fist. The magazine served as a makeshift sap.

  “Fuck!” The injured man punched at him again, but this time the blow glanced off the top of Sheppard’s head. It hurt, but didn’t slow him down. Sheppard struck the man’s head again and then at any part of the man’s body he could reach. He pounded at the man’s sides, legs, armpits, and crotch. The dazed man shifted to the side—probably to reach for a stashed weapon—and Sheppard shoved him the rest of the way off. He was finally free. By this time, Christa had moved a few steps away. He could hear her gasping.

  Sheppard scrambled to his feet in the gloom. He took the deepest breath he had ever taken, and knew this was his only chance. The goggles were still in his hand. He donned them, and the entire hallway lit up bright green. Sheppard searched for the downed man, but it wasn’t until he heard the stifled scream that he knew exactly where to look. He spun around.

  The man was standing right behind Christa. He held her knife to her throat. He stood facing Sheppard, but his eyes were looking elsewhere. “I’ll kill her if I have to, Captain Sheppard.”

  Sheppard watched as the man’s eyes darted around in the darkness. He clearly had no idea where Sheppard was standing. He was blind without the NV-goggles that Sheppard now wore. Sheppard held his breath and moved a step to the left.

  “We’re just here for you,” said the man. “We don’t need the others.”

  Sheppard almost responded by asking who “we” was, but caught himself in time. Rescuing Christa was his primary job at that moment. He gauged the distance and studied his options.

  “Say something, Captain, or I’ll cut her throat.”

  Sheppard took a calculated risk. He did not speak as he approached the man.

  “Say something, damn it!” The man’s fear stank up the still hallway. Sheppard knew he could use that to his advantage. Christa’s eyes were wide with terror and looked weirdly black and shiny in the eerie light. Sheppard moved his left foot and let it tap the floor faintly. The knife relaxed a bit as the man adjusted both his mind and the arm that held Christa captive.

  Sheppard grabbed the wrist holding the knife and twisted it out of the man’s hand. Christa felt the movement. She elbowed the intruder in the gut, and though she only hit Kevlar the man was plainly startled. As Sheppard watched through the goggles, Christa grunted, bent at the waist, and managed to get away.

  Sheppard didn’t hesitate. He stepped close and drove the blade right through the man’s eye until it hit the bone at the back of his head. The man dropped, taking the knife with him. Sheppard knew it was a kill and had already moved his eyes away to locate Christa. His adrenaline had never been higher. He felt like a giant. He tugged at Christa’s arm.

  “Good job, Christa. We’re almost there. Let’s move.” Sheppard collected the pistol from the floor and put the reload back in his pocket. He took Christa by the wrist and headed down the hallway. They moved fast and stayed low. With the NV goggles on, Sheppard could see the body of the other man he’d hit at the beginning of the fight. The mercenary was unconscious, bleeding out or already dead. Of course, there was always the possibility that the man would reanimate after death.

  “Cover your ears,” Sheppard said. He paused a moment for Christa to comply, then shot the man in the head. He then reached down and collected a rather wicked-looking bullpup assault rifle and a pair of reloads. Stuffing the pistol and rifle magazines in his pocket, Sheppard brought the silenced weapon up to his shoulder. He searched ahead but saw no new targets.

  “How much farther?” Sheppard asked softly.

  “I don’t know where we are.” Christa replied in the darkness.

  “We’re at the far end of the hall.”

  “Turn right, then. Go to the second door on the left. Knock twice.”

  He did, and led her forward, and they went to the door. Sheppard knocked twice quietly. Nothing moved inside or made the slightest sound. Not a good sign.

  “Christa, tell them not to shoot us.”

  “If there was anyone there,” she said in a defeated voice, “they would have said something.”

  Sheppard shrugged and turned the knob. Opening the door, using the NV goggles, he could see that the room was empty, without a gun in sight. His heart sank. “I thought you said this was the armory.”

  Christa came into the room behind him. “Close the door.”

  Sheppard did. He watched as she felt around the wall to the right. Then she pulled on something, and the wall opened slightly with a loud click. Christa reached to the left and light filled the room. Sheppard closed his eyes and swept off the goggles. He waited a few seconds and looked again. He’d been wrong. This was indeed the armory. Behind the hidden door was a room filled floor to ceiling with weapons and ammo.

  “How long do we wait for the others?”

  Christa didn’t look at him. She was already into the supplies. She handed Sheppard a Kevlar vest and a helmet. “They’re not coming. They’d already be here by now. They must be dead or captured.”

  “Then we’ll have to go after them.”

  But all she did was smile. “Thank you for saving my life.” Christa also armored up. When she had her own vest in place, she picked up a pair of flashlights and four grenades. She handed Sheppard one of the flashlights but kept the grenades webbed on her vest. Then she located a large set of keys and gripped them in her hand. Her pleasant face was grim with determination, those soft eyes cold with anger.

  “I’ll drive. You’ve got shotgun.” Christa turned and opened another hidden door behind the wood paneling. This one had a short hall that ended up leading to a small garage. Sheppard followed her and closed the door behind them. They had to bend over in the hallway and barely squeezed into the garage. A plain black SUV waited. There was barely room on the sides to open the doors and get in. The low ceiling almost scraped the paint off the roof.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I am taking you to a safe house. My husband and I knew this might happen.” Christa climbed into the driver’s seat. She started the engine. “Get in.”

  “Will McDivitt and the others know to meet us there?” Sheppard asked as he belted into the passenger seat. He patted his wounded side absently. The stitches had held. The adrenaline was still surging. He’d have to get around to noticing the pain later.

  “We can only set up the danger sign and hope they see it.” Without further explanation, Christa backed up, right through the garage door, the crunch of wood and the squeal of metal harsh in the silence of the evening. She backed expertly down a short back road disguised with leaves and branches. She spun the car around and Sheppard smelled burning rubber.

  They sped away and turned onto the road.

  Chapter Fifteen

  3 hours, 48 minutes to Stage Three (8:12pm)

  Penelope Jean Miller, Sheriff of the now deserted County of Flat Rock, Nevada, was dead and gone. She blinked at the bright light shining before her eyes. She was free from pain, and apart from being a bit disoriented, actually felt warm and at peace. She looked around, and saw nothing but bright light around her. She had no body, no arms or legs. There was no world, no room around her, just a white glare that pervaded everything. This must be it, then. Apparently the war was finally over. She wondered if Scratch was dead, too. She hoped not.

  “Hello?” Her voice was just a whisper.

  No one responded.

  “Am I dead?” Her voice was a tad louder now, but the words sounded muddled and thick. She asked no one in particular. And again no one, or nothing, answered her. She tried to take a deep breath, but she didn’t seem to have any lungs, and nothing obvious happened. She tried again, but no cool air entered her windpipe, and no waste carbon dioxide was exhaled. Her chest didn’t seem to move.

  “That’s it,” she whispered aloud. “So I’m really done. This is death.”

  She wanted to move around, to rise up to explore her new surroundings, but she had no way to motivate herself to do that an
d no power over whatever shell she now possessed. This wasn’t the world she’d grown accustomed to by any means. Wherever she was, she seemed to be stuck here. Forever? Miller took stock of herself. She wasn’t hungry, or tired, didn’t have pain or the need to pee. She just was.

  “At least I’m not a damned zombie,” Miller said. That thought comforted her. She couldn’t stand the idea of ending up as the very thing that she had fought so hard against for so long. Her brief experience with the zombie group mind had made that idea horrifying. Their endless hunger and sadness and grief had been unbearable. She shuddered inwardly, but seemingly had no body that moved in response.

  Miller also tried to pray, but felt like a hypocrite. She had a million questions to ask but no one was there to answer, at least not yet. There wasn’t much she could do. So she just waited.

  Nothing happened for a long time. She began to wonder if where she was would turn out to be in Heaven or Hell. What was floating in space, surrounded by a uniform white light, with no way to do anything except think? That couldn’t be Heaven. After a moment, she decided that it must be Hell. Eternity trapped in your own mind with only your regrets and sad memories. Couldn’t get much worse than that.

  “Not too surprising,” Miller said, whispering to keep herself company. “After everything I’ve had to do, all the lives I’ve taken, all the mistakes I’ve made, it seems rather fitting that I’d end up in Hell. I just hope that Scratch survived that Judy’s stupid, suicidal, asshole move. If he’s still alive, I can deal with Hell.”

  She didn’t feel alive, but didn’t feel dead either. Miller wondered if she was in a coma, or going crazy, or perhaps still in the middle of dying on the cement floor. Why was she alone? She began to wonder where everyone else was. Something was off, way off. Wasn’t Hell supposed to be filled with sinners? Or was this her private Hell? Must be my own, she concluded, but this is a crappy way to spend eternity. Of course, Hell is supposed to be awful, right?

  Somewhere, far away, a sound caught her attention. If Miller had the capacity to feel fear, she would have been nervous about who or what she was about to face. But at the moment, everything seemed all right. She was more curious than frightened. And at least she apparently wasn’t all alone. She studied the light and waited.