The Hungry 2: The Wrath of God

by Steven W. Booth

  "Well, I'll be damned," Terrill Lee said. "For not being a medical man, you sure have great taste in antibiotics."

  "What did you find?" Sheppard was sweating bullets now.

  "What didn't I find! He's got one of just about everything in here." Terrill Lee knelt down holding a vial. "Levaquin. This shit will kill just about anything."

  "Will it kill the zombie virus?" asked Scratch. He was looking right at Miller.

  Sheppard answered first. "It's an antibiotic—it won't work on viruses. Besides, we couldn't find anything that would kill two-six-alpha. Even stuff that would kill a human instantly wasn't strong enough to destroy it."

  "Oh," said Scratch. He shrugged.

  Terrill Lee drew a little bit of it into the syringe. He swabbed a small patch of skin next to where Sheppard had been shot and injected the Levaquin into his leg. He produced another vial and syringe and injected Sheppard again.

  "And that second one will help with the pain," Terrill Lee said. "It's good shit."

  Terrill Lee said, "If any of you are squeamish, this would be a very good time to look away. Abraham, could you slow down for a minute or so and drive carefully?"

  Abraham complied without answering. Miller watched over her shoulder. Rat and Lovell seemed disinterested. They had been here before.

  Terrill Lee peeled back the bandage he had put on the wound just the night before. The infection was obvious. The skin around the wound was inflamed, but the wound wasn't bleeding. A strong smell drifted out from the suppurating wound. Pale yellow pus seeped from the edges of the bullet hole.

  "Well, it isn't gangrene," Sheppard said with relief. The pain drug was hitting him. His eyes were out of focus.

  "Not yet," replied Terrill Lee. "Let's let the Levaquin do its job."

  Miller turned away at that point. She was hardly squeamish, but she had seen enough pain and death in the last month, so much that she couldn't bear to watch Terrill Lee playing with Sheppard's leg. The two worked together and Sheppard barely cried out. They had things cleaned up and re-bandaged quickly.

  Abraham sped up again, rocking from side to side, pushing the bucket of bolts as if he were a champion Nascar driver. They were making good time. The Ruby mountains appeared in the distance and the ground leveled off. Miller was beginning to recognize the terrain. At the speed they were going, they would be in Flat Rock in less than twenty minutes.

  Empty cars began to dot the road, mostly on the shoulder, but occasionally there would be a pair of automobiles crashed into each other blocking one of the lanes. Father Abraham simply zipped around them like a kid at a carnival playing bumper cars, rarely taking his foot off the accelerator. He ran over skeletons with studied indifference. Miller chose not to be concerned about Abraham's driving. He may have been a bit eccentric but he certainly didn't appear suicidal.

  "Father Abraham, we should be approaching my headquarters in a few minutes. I'd appreciate it if you could stop there. We can pick up some weapons and supplies. And a coat," Miller added, mostly to herself.

  "I would be delighted to accommodate you, my dear," said Abraham.

  Miller turned to see what the others were doing. Rat and Lovell were resting, as was Scratch. Miller ignored Terrill Lee and Sheppard discussing the anatomy of Sheppard's wound. She went back to staring out the front window. They hit the outskirts of Flat Rock. Miller tuned out the carnage.

  "There it is."

  The Sheriff's headquarters itself resembled a killing field. There were decaying bodies and vulture-picked skeletons strewn all around the street and the parking lot, some in stacks piled six or seven corpses high. Miller tried hard not to think about that first night, and once again failed miserably. She remembered all of the townspeople she'd had to shoot to protect her deputy and her two prisoners, which had been Scratch and a man named Needles. What was left of Deputy Wells was probably still lying there in the jailhouse, a rotten corpse. He had never been turned into a zombie. Scratch had killed him first, in cold blood. If the world hadn't turned upside down, Miller would have seen to it that Scratch was put away for life for that and other crimes.

  As it was, she was seriously considering having sex with him instead. Man, the world is fucked up, Miller thought.

  Abraham pulled the Winnebago as close to the building as he could. They all looked out the filthy windows but saw nothing outside but dust, death, and decay. Miller moved to the door. She paused to look around carefully then reached down and opened it.

  "Want me to come with, Penny?" asked Scratch.

  "Uh, no. I think it would be best if you stayed." Miller stepped down onto the blacktop.

  Scratch looked at her for a long moment. Evidently he wasn't in a mood to fight. He just said, "Okay."

  "Rat, you want to give me a hand?" Miller asked. She started walking toward the building. She heard Rat come down the stairs behind her.

  Rat caught up a moment later. Her dark hair was matted. She kept her eyes straight ahead. "Orders, Sheriff?"

  "Oh, for heaven's sake! Don't give me that subordinate crap, Rat."

  "What do you expect?" Rat said. "You usurped my command. Everyone else is taking orders from you. This is no time to stage a mutiny."

  Miller reached the back entrance to the Sheriff's station. A light morning breeze moved a bit of paper trash. A long moment passed. Satisfied, Miller opened the door silently. She had a pretty good idea of what to expect. "I'm not trying to push your buttons, Rat. Until we're back in civilization, my experience trumps yours. That's all. Get over it. And by the way, my name is Penny."

  Miller stepped into the dark interior. Rat followed. She went to the left and Rat moved right. The place seemed deserted. They came back together, spoke in low tones.

  "Good enough, Penny. Now, just what the hell are we doing here?"

  "I'm hoping that the weapon's locker is still full. And then there are some personal items I want to pick up."

  "I'll go get the weapons. You go get your personal things. We'll meet in the middle."

  "Okay. But watch out. You know the drill by now. Any one of these poor dead motherfuckers could get up and make lunch out of us at any moment."

  "Right," Rat said. "Where am I headed?"

  "Over there, in that closet. I'll be in my office."

  Miller went to her office door. Her mind was flooded with memories of that first, terrible night of the zombie apocalypse. She tried to ignore the skeletons of Needles and the football player zombie who'd killed him. Deputy Wells killed him she heard Scratch's voice say. She shook that memory off. She didn't want to have that argument again. They had started on the wrong foot and had pretty much avoided the topic since.

  Miller opened the door to her office and stepped inside. They had been redecorating the old jail. A paint cloth was still on the floor and most of the furniture remained intact. The radio on her desk was set in the on position, but the power was long dead. Miller walked around the messy desk. She leaned over and pulled open one of the top drawers. The locked gun case was still there. She opened it with a key from another drawer. Inside was her spare Smith & Wesson .357 magnum service revolver. It felt damned good back in her hand. She put it in the clip-on holster, and attached it to her waist.

  For a second, Miller thought she heard screaming and gunshots and the ghastly rip of wet flesh. She closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and leaned over with her hand on the wall. She saw gas station owner Luther Grabowski as a zombie, reaching out for her with bloody drool running down his chin. Bodies piled up everywhere in a haze of gun smoke. Get your shit together lady, she thought. Work to do.

  Miller went back around the desk. She took up her uniform jacket with her badge attached and name embroidered on the front and the word SHERIFF emblazoned across the back. She put it on, and felt right for the first time in over a month. In the pocket was a pair of sunglasses, which she also donned. Miller took down the broad-brimmed hat that hung at the top of the coat rack and put it on her head. She took in a deep breath, let it out s
lowly. Maybe the world wasn't as fucked up as she'd thought. Or maybe it is getting un-fucked at long last…

  She came out of her office. Rat looked happy as well. She had found a pair of shotguns and a .30-06, and a large backpack full of ammunition.

  "That's more like it," smiled Miller. She reached out for the .30-06, and felt the weight. "Well, I don't know about you, Rat, but I feel much better."

  "You look better, Penny." She said it with a smile.

  "Okay, let's get back aboard the Godmobile, and get us the fuck out of here."

  "You're on."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  6:07am – 11 hours 53 minutes remaining

  "We've got a powerful need to eat, so I think that's our next order of business. What have you got in the way of food, Father Abraham?" asked Miller. She stepped back onboard the Winnebago.

  Abraham scratched his beard and chuckled, the demented Santa. "My own supplies are meager, my children." Abraham sighed apologetically. "I'm afraid we may just have to fast today."

  Miller and Rat exchanged glances. "Father Abraham," said Rat, "back at the base you assured us you had plenty of food. What's changed since then?"

  "I said nothing of the sort," Abraham snapped. "I am not a chef, I am here to save your soul!" He spread his hands wide and looked up at the ceiling of the Winnebago as if it offered a portal to the ethers. "Forgive us. The flesh is weak and corrupt, and cannot be trusted." He turned back to them. "Prayer feeds the soul; eating only prolongs the suffering of the body."

  "Then what's with all the medical supplies?" asked Terrill Lee, dryly. "Doesn't that prolong the suffering of the body, too?"

  Father Abraham stared at Terrill Lee as if he had just noticed that someone else was there. A beatific smile spread across his face. He looked at the other members of their tiny group with a countenance filled with faux joy and benevolence. "What I meant to say is this. Folks, shall we go find breakfast?"

  "But you just said…" Terrill Lee stepped forward. He was righteously pissed off now. Miller put out her hand, stopping him in his boot prints. The Winnebago rocked a bit as everyone settled back in.

  Miller turned to face Abraham. She returned his smile. "Why sure. Breakfast sounds great. What did you have in mind?"

  "I know a place, right here in this very town." Without another word, Abraham turned around again. He sat down heavily in the driver's seat. He started the engine and accelerated without warning, throwing them off balance again. He raced away from the jail, the huge Winnebago crunching loudly over the skeletons of the dead. Miller and Rat had to scramble to find something to hold onto to keep from being thrown to the floor. Miller eventually made her way back up to the passenger seat. She secured her seatbelt out of fear for her own safety. She glanced out the dusty window. The streets were packed with trash, wrecked cars, and rotting bodies. Crows and vultures gorged on dried out flesh. Same old view.

  Abraham headed up Second Street to Clark Avenue, the main drag through Flat Rock. Miller remembered marching in a small Memorial Day parade right after being elected Sheriff. Abraham steered right down the middle of the street. He ran over and splattered a misshapen hunk of road kill. Miller closed her eyes, rubbed her temples. The air was thick with the stench of unwashed bodies and the dead outside.

  Abraham gunned the Winnebago, which had now developed a subtle rattle. That worried Miller greatly. Are we low on oil? Abraham took two lefts and just as Miller figured out where they were headed he pulled up in front of the Silver Dollar Café. Abraham parked at the curb next to a huge heap of wind-blown plastic trash bags, several broken open by carrion birds or perhaps feral animals.

  The sun beat down outside. Abraham shut off the engine. "Good fortune, nice parking spot near my favorite breakfast joint. They don't seem to be very busy today."

  "Huh," said Scratch. "Cowboy, I think the café is closed."

  "Closed?" Abraham said. "Why, nonsense." He stood and went to the Winnebago's door. "I'll go get us a table." He moved outside, down the steps and onto the sidewalk. Abraham looked both ways like a kid crossing the street when parents are watching. He opened the entrance, walked into the dark, empty restaurant and disappeared from sight.

  "The fuck was that?" Psycho said. "He's nucking futs."

  Terrill Lee and Scratch exchanged a look who's talking glance.

  "Appears that way," said Miller. "So much for him being harmless," Miller said. She glared pointedly at Scratch and Terrill Lee. "I thought you clowns would be better judges of character by now."

  Scratch put up his hands in defense. Terrill Lee just looked at the floor. His cheeks reddened.

  "There's a grocery store across the street." Miller shook herself back into action. "Maybe we can find some canned goods and bottled water."

  Rat nodded. "My team will take care of that."

  Terrill Lee raised his hand again. "I thought we weren't supposed to split up the party."

  Miller hesitated, then made up her mind. "Take the shotguns," Miller said. She didn't want another argument about who was in charge of what. Or any more losses, either. Rat, Lovell, and Psycho stood up and left, efficiently and with no wasted motion.

  Miller said, "Scratch, let's go find Father Harmless."

  "What about me?" asked Terrill Lee.

  "You should stay here with Sheppard," Miller said. "I want him able bodied two hours ago. Besides, someone has to be here to guard the Winnebago."

  "All right." Terrill Lee was clearly disappointed.

  Penny turned to go. Scratch stood up and followed Miller outside. The morning sunshine was white hot and bright in their eyes, running quicksilver up and down the length of Clark Avenue. The sky was a shade of blue that almost matched Miller's eyes, at least back when she'd had enough sleep. The heat felt good on her skin. It wasn't quite warm enough to get rid of her Sheriff's jacket, but it would be soon. Until then, Miller was happy to have part of her uniform on. And at least I'm not stuck in a fucking wedding dress. The thought of her last trip through Flat Rock made her shiver. She'd been a prisoner, and ended up trapped in that stinking white rag for several days. Miller shook off the memory. She handed Scratch the .30-06 rifle, and rested her hand on the .357 at her hip.

  The door to the Silver Dollar was open, the interior dark and dusty. No lighting or power. The electrical grid in this part of Nevada had been shut down as part of the quarantine. The Feds had done the same with natural gas and water. They entered the coffee shop. Some light crept in through broken windows and the torn curtains cast patterned shadows on the dusty floor. Miller glanced at the wall. Just like back at the base, someone had spray-painted: The WrATh of GoD! Judging by what she'd seen in Abraham's Winnebago, he'd had something to do with it. Miller wondered if his followers were imaginary. Hell, it certainly looked that way.

  Miller looked around. It was a ghost town café. The restaurant brought back memories of happier times, cigarette smoke and laughter, the scent of fresh coffee and the sizzle of bacon frying in the kitchen. Now it was just silence everywhere. Outside a crow cawed as if mocking her nostalgia. The place had six booths covered with red plastic and most had been patched with duct tape in spots. There were also ten freestanding tables. The chipped linoleum counter had seven stools, and stood right in front of the kitchen window, with doors leading back on either side of the cluttered, yellowing surface. Ants had gotten into the sugar jar and flies buzzed in darkened corners. Fat and happy flies.

  Miller looked down. Father Abraham's tracks could be seen clearly in the light gray dust. They led back to the kitchen through the half-open door on the right side of the long customer counter—boot prints, and the first in many a day.

  Miller and Scratch exchanged glances. Miller didn't care for this at all. The hair on her neck stood out.

  "Father Abraham?" Miller loosened the strap that secured her revolver in its holster, wrapped her fingers around the grip. No sense in taking it out if there's nothing wrong, she thought. On the other hand, feels like the start of a campfir
e ghost story in here…

  Outside, the crow cawed again and then left with a clattering flutter.

  "Hello?"

  Father Abraham did not respond to her call. Nevertheless, Miller listened intently and thought she could hear him moving around. Is the old fart talking to someone in the back? Talking to who? Or to what? Miller motioned for Scratch to take the left side of the counter. He quietly checked to make sure that the rifle he carried was loaded. Scratch smiled softly, so Miller figured he was ready. She moved to the left as he slid to the right. A floorboard creaked quietly under her right shoe. Miller paused then moved again. Other than that one squeak, neither one of them made a sound.

  "Father Abraham?" Miller approached the doorway. Scratch kept watch, covering her.

  Miller un-holstered her pistol, gripped it tightly in both hands, aimed down at the floor. Scratch was in a good position, and Miller figured no one needed to know he was there in the room. Scratch was her backup in case this thing went south in a hurry. She'd be doing the talking for now.

  "Father Abraham, answer me. Say you're still breathing, or I'm going to have to come in there locked and loaded."

  Something in the kitchen clattered to the ground. Something that sounded metallic, a pie tin or a plate maybe, went rolling noisily on the floor. Miller jerked back. Scratch frowned. Then they heard someone very clearly, speaking in a small, high voice. "No!"

  A loud crash followed.

  "Go," Miller whispered. Scratch moved low and fast to the other side. Miller swallowed dryly. She charged toward the door to the kitchen. It swung wildly her way. Something or someone was coming out of the door at the same time, and almost knocked Miller on her ass. Whoever it was passed her low and to the side, moving way too quickly to be one of the undead, but Miller wanted to be sure. She reached out to the small, dirty form, and snagged its arm and swung it around to one of the booths. She raised her pistol. The little face was animated, wide-eyed. Alive.