The Hungry 2: The Wrath of God

by Steven W. Booth

  "Yesterday afternoon you told me that the only reason you and your merry little band made it through the first few days of the zombie outbreak was because, and I quote, 'they had me.' Now, I'm willing to admit that you are one tough bitch, and you got a way with leadership. But you're no battle commander. You're all tactics, no strategy. We have a term for that in the Army. They're called sergeants. Officers need to think long term, and running off on every little adventure is a good way to die, but not a good way to protect the team. I'm giving you two choices, Sheriff. Stay here in command of the team, or go off with Lovell and take orders from me."

  "Nice of you to offer me a choice," Miller said, dryly.

  "Take that as a complement, Penny." Rat turned smartly and walked away.

  Miller stood at the rear of the Winnebago. For once, she was almost speechless. She sat down on the banged up back bumper. Her eyes watered. She was damn near ready to cry—and she hadn't really cried since she was sixteen years old. Miller wanted to explain to Rat that she never wanted to come on this mission in the first place, never wanted to put herself or her friends back into danger. What, she wanted this shit to happen? But here she was, sitting in zombie gore again, looking down at a bus driver's headless body and a crap load of slaughtered Girl Scouts, with Terrill Lee dead, Sheppard shot, Scratch accused of a triple murder, and a trio of mercenaries, a little girl, and a crazy old man to take care of to boot. Shit fire. This was not what she had in mind for her life.

  Miller sucked it up, as usual. She looked up at the sun. She reckoned it was about eight in the morning, giving them just about ten hours before that bomb went off. She really didn't want to be around for that, but they weren't getting any farther away with her sitting on the bumper and everyone waiting for a decision. She made one.

  Miller stood up, straightened her hat, and took a step forward.

  Uhh-uhhnn!

  Miller's pistol was out of its holster before she even thought about it. She looked around, but there was no one in sight and nothing moving. The short hairs on her neck fluttered, and it wasn't the dying breeze. As the sun crept higher the area began to stink. Miller whirled in circles. She checked around for the source of the noise. She stepped around the corner of the Winnebago where she saw Scratch talking to Lovell, Psycho, and Rat. She whistled and they turned.

  "I think we've got company," said Miller. She kept scanning the road for any sign of the undead. "I heard something."

  "Where?" asked Scratch.

  "I don't know. Didn't you hear that?"

  "Penny, I don't hear anything but you."

  Uh-huh-uhhhh.

  "Hells bells." Scratch brought up the .30-06. He ran to Miller's side. Psycho was right behind him. They formed a tight trio, all facing out at the world.

  Miller's gaze was everywhere at once. "Where the fuck are they?"

  "I got nothing." That was Rat, from the other end of the Winnebago.

  Uh-huhh!

  "Damn, sounds as if they're right on top of us," said Scratch.

  "Seems that way," Miller replied.

  Finally Miller, Scratch, and Psycho slowly, almost comically, looked straight up.

  The small zombie Girl Scout launched from the roof of the Winnebago. The little blonde girl fell on Miller, knocking her to the ground. The two struggled, the child-thing growling and snapping at Miller's face, Miller holding her off with both arms. Psycho racked his shotgun, but held his fire to avoid hitting Miller. The zombie was chewing at the air with its wide little mouth, and staring into those empty eyes was seeing death up close and entirely too personal.

  Scratch turned the Winchester around and promptly clubbed the zombie on the back of its little blonde head. The creature lost its grip and Miller finally rolled it away into the dirt. Scratch stepped closer to the creature. The zombie looked up at Scratch. It hissed. Scratch kicked the zombie in the face, knocking it well clear of Miller. Psycho fired, and the zombie's head exploded into pink and gray mist. The torso fell straight over backwards. The cute little legs kicked and then ceased movement.

  "Are you okay, Penny?" Scratch helped her to her feet.

  Miller said nothing. Without thinking about it, she put her arms around Scratch and held him tight. She kept her eyes closed. Her mind was spinning again, moving fast enough to slip a cog or two. Miller felt close to the breaking point. She held fast, taking comfort from his masculinity, even his male odor.

  "It's okay, Penny. It's over." Scratch caressed her hair.

  Miller held him that way for a long time. Then she realized what she was doing. And that the others were watching. She opened her eyes and looked around. Psycho, Rat, and Lovell were all staring. Psycho looked pissed. Lovell had an odd grin on his face. Rat seemed vaguely jealous. Miller disengaged herself from Scratch. She brushed herself off.

  Suddenly Psycho fell flat on his face. Everyone jumped back. Psycho grunted in surprise. His face contorted as his huge body disappeared under the Winnebago, dragged by one leg. Psycho shouted in anger and pain, a high-pitched sound rivaled only by the grunting sound of the zombies hiding below the Winnebago. Uhhh-huhhh!

  "Psycho!" Rat squatted, shotgun at the ready. She scanned the undercarriage for her teammate. "Sonofabitch! I can't see him."

  Psycho continued to scream, the pitch growing higher as the creatures fed on him. They stood helpless, everyone knowing it was already too late. Miller waved everyone back. They waited and could hear his shotgun go off once, twice. Then, as quickly as it began, the shouting and shooting stopped. Silence returned. A nearby vulture landed in the quiet and pecked at a dead Girl Scout.

  Miller's heart sank. Psycho was dead for sure. To make matters worse, if he wasn't they'd need to kill him all over again, if they could even find him. Shit, and find all the other zombies who'd just made him a hearty breakfast. Where the hell was the enemy? Where had they come from?

  "Lovell, go move the Winnebago."

  "Where're you going?" Psycho spoke in a quiet, conversational tone.

  Everyone looked up. His uniform was torn, and he was splattered with blood, but there was no way to tell if it was his own or from the undead. His eyes were clear, though, and he was talking, so he was still alive. He walked a few steps, straight up enough to be okay. But was he infected? Miller knew they all wondered. Psycho probably did too.

  He was still holding the shotgun.

  "Psycho," Miller spoke slowly and soothingly. "Are you all right?"

  "I hope," Psycho said in his usual clipped way. He tried to walk again but staggered a little. "Shit." Psycho bent over and pulled his pant leg up.

  A small bloody human bite was visible on his hairy calf, with a chunk of flesh missing.

  "Oh, shit," said Rat. Her voice broke. "Psycho…"

  "Where are the other zombies," asked Scratch, "the ones that grabbed you?"

  "Vaporized," Psycho said, smiling. "I shot those little bitches."

  Miller stepped forward. "Why don't you hand me that shotgun, Psycho, and let us see what we can do for you."

  "We both know you can't help me, Sheriff," Psycho said with a heavy sigh. He racked the shotgun, expelling an empty shell, which clattered hollowly on the ground. Miller wondered if there was a fresh round in the chamber. Psycho wasn't the bluffing type. No one moved.

  Psycho shook his head like a sad man at a funeral. Then he pointed the shotgun at Rat. Miller and Scratch both raised their own weapons.

  "What are you going to do, Psycho?" asked Rat calmly, her own shotgun still loose at her side.

  Psycho shook his head again. He lost his balance, recovered it, all without the shotgun wavering from its aim point—right at Rat's face.

  "Never liked you much, Rat."

  "You know, I'm not exactly your biggest fan either, Psycho."

  "Always said I'd take your ass with me."

  "Don't do it," ordered Miller. She had her pistol pointed at his head. Miller ordered herself to fire, to take him out, but something stayed her hand. His finger might twitch and Ra
t would be a goner. They'd need her skills. It was a standoff.

  Psycho laughed. "What, you gonna kill me, Sheriff? Shit, I'm already dead!"

  Rat stepped forward, closer to the big man. He watched her close the gap. Rat seemed unafraid. Psycho did nothing as Rat approached. Now she was less than a foot away from the shotgun's barrel. She rested her hand on it, smiled and pushed it gently to the side. She looked Psycho in the eyes. She'd never looked more human. Then Rat said, "I'm really proud of you, Psycho."

  Psycho lowered his weapon. His body shook from the virus. He tried to remain standing. Miller watched a solitary tear roll down Psycho's dirty cheek. It slid in slow motion and hit his collar right before his eyes clouded over.

  "Uhhhhh."

  Psycho's shotgun went off, down into the dirt, missing Rat's boot by a few inches. Miller and Scratch fired simultaneously. Psycho's head collapsed. His corpse fell heavily to the ground. A long stream of blood poured out into the dirt.

  Rat still held the shotgun by its hot barrel. She looked down at the steaming body. Her eyes were genuinely sad.

  "Goodbye, soldier."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  8:38am – 9 hours 22 minutes remaining

  There were no zombies at the auto parts store. It was deserted and had been for some time, although someone had spray painted the side wall with one of those increasingly familiar slogans again: The WrATh of GoD! The little town was blessedly silent for a change. No one living or dead harassed them as they repaired the Winnebago and transferred the fuel from the school bus. They all worked in silence, each trying to process the recent tragedies in their own way, doing the best they could to keep it together.

  Father Abraham was surprisingly quiet about all the carnage splattered on his beloved Winnebago. He was also very complacent about the repairs and their plans to go to Salt Lake. He viewed everything that happened around him as the will of the divine, and that suited Miller just fine. Whatever got him through. As long as no one threatened to go into the back bedroom area of the Winnebago, Abraham seemed content to sit and watch. Sheppard was out a lot of the time, sleeping deeply, though he seemed to be regaining strength.

  Rat and Scratch stood guard over Lovell as the soldier reached into the engine compartment and replaced the fuel filter, and rapidly tinkered around with the motor. Miller also had him inspect under the chassis, just in case Psycho had accidentally shot up something, perhaps the fuel tank or the oil pan. Better to find out now and get things fixed. Lovell checked and said it was all clear and that they were good to go. He climbed out, dusting himself off.

  Elizabeth sat next to Sheppard. She dozed off while the repairs were finished. Miller had no idea how they were going to get Elizabeth and Scratch to the border without some kind of problem, but then that was really the least of her worries. They had already lost two valuable people, Terrill Lee and Psycho, in the space of about thirty minutes. Fairly or not, Miller blamed herself in both cases. She was determined not to lose anyone else. Not now, not later, not ever. Part of her wondered how she was going to pull that miracle off, but, as God was her witness, no one else would die today.

  And then there was whatever the fuck was going on with her and Scratch. She had done a bang-up job of keeping her distance from him, but after that pathetic soap opera embrace, her credibility would be entirely shot if she tried to push him away again. Most of all, Miller was just glad that Elizabeth hadn't seen that hug, or the little girl's faith would be utterly destroyed. What a mess…

  The splintering, untended buildings and piles of trash surrounded them as Father Abraham, who had insisted on driving again, guided them out of Flat Rock and toward the safety of the wilderness. Miller watched out the filthy window as the town slid by and the auto parts store drifted into the background. Tiger's Tacos, at the corner of Liberty and Duke, where Miller had eaten lunch every other day, was now just a blackened husk. The old library stood open with all but one window busted out. That's where Miss Barbara had been the first victim of the zombies—at least according to Miller's deputy, Bob Wells. Saddened, Miller saw several rotting corpses lying on the ground outside the library doors. She wondered if one of them was Barbara. Then she remembered: No, Miller herself had shot Barbara through the head. She'd done that when Miss Barbara and all the other zombies had besieged the jail. Now, Miller and Miss Barbara hadn't seen eye to eye on a lot of things, but Miller would still have preferred not to have the memory of her rotting brains spraying out the back of her head in a red-gray mist. She had way too many of those memories as it was.

  Miller looked again as the Winnebago passed by the building. The skeleton she saw was probably Old Laszlo Grabowski, Luther's father, Flat Rock's first homegrown zombie. Deputy Wells had shot him several times before stumbling onto the kill shot. Aim for the brain. And then as Old Grabowski's remains drifted out of sight, Miller wondered what had befallen him. Had he met a stranger on the street, someone he would have told to take a hike—Laszlo wasn't known for his hospitality—and had been attacked? She would never know for sure about any of her townspeople, and in a way realized she finally didn't really care. Laszlo was dead, they were all dead.

  The occupants of the Winnebago may very well be the last remaining survivors in the town, perhaps even the county, of Flat Rock. It was all so sad.

  Miller closed her eyes, tired and hungry. She hoped they were the last in a way, because that nuclear bomb wouldn't do anyone still living any good. Kiss goodbye all who might be out this way. Flat Rock may have been beyond the immediate blast radius, but that didn't mean that it would be any fun to be around when the bomb went off. A cloud of radiation would kill everything within miles of that bomb. Anything still twitching that wasn't already a zombie. Which was likely a good thing.

  And all because of the arrogant government and the military. What a damn mess.

  Pull yourself together, Penelope Jean, thought Miller. Rat's right. You're not doing anyone any good as a weepy fool pining over your lost town, your old friends, even Terrill Lee. Get these people to safety, and deal with whatever comes next. You can't do anything about the past. Learn from it. Don't let anyone else die.

  Father Abraham headed north on the highway, expertly dodging wrecked vehicles at top speed. The vultures were going to need to join Weight Watchers soon. The sun was high and the road cleared out as the town faded away behind them. In the dust it looked like a slice of the old west on a worn movie reel. Miller focused on the road ahead. There were some shattered motorcycles out there and a few skeletons splattered on the highway. Outside the window, one big bike's handlebars gleamed, reflecting sunshine.

  "Hey, that's Malice and Cockroach's ride," said Scratch.

  Miller looked at him quizzically.

  "My old crew."

  Then Miller remembered. "Father Abraham, watch out," called Miller. "This road is blocked up ahead."

  "No, it's not," said Father Abraham. He said it clearly, simply. As if he knew better. He tended to do that, whether he actually knew or not.

  "Yes, it is," Miller said. "There's an NHP roadblock about three miles from here. You need to take the next turnoff."

  "There's nothing to worry about, my child," said Father Abraham. He spoke calmly. He stepped on the accelerator. The large vehicle groaned and began to shimmy as it approached its top speed. Abraham swerved around another downed motorcycle. Astride it perched a desiccated corpse in black leather, slumped over—an old ghost taking a long, long nap.

  Miller heard a small gasp come from the rear of the Winnebago and when she turned. Elizabeth had her eyes wide open. The girl was still plastered to Sheppard, who had his arm around her. Elizabeth seemed tense as she stared out the front window at the cars, bodies, and scattered debris whizzing by. It was surprising how crowded the highway seemed. Everyone in the area had tried to escape on the same road. Someone had created a huge wreck and the zombies had seemingly worked their way down the buffet table until all the humans had turned or been torn to shreds.

 
; The sun outside seemed more powerful now, even a bit threatening. The Winnebago vibrated dangerously. Miller looked at the others. They were all scowling. "Father Abraham," said Miller, her knuckles white as she gripped the armrest of her seat, "could you slow down, please? You're starting to freak us out."

  Rat muttered, "Amen to that."

  "We are in God's hands, children," Abraham said loudly, clearly intending for everyone to hear. "Our fate is the Divine Will."

  "Yeah?" said Scratch. "Well, how about you slow your holy ass down anyway, before I slow it down for you?"

  Miller was watching out the windshield, waiting for the coming roadblock. She remembered it well. She spotted Terrill Lee's abandoned black Durango, tires all blown out, up ahead and rushing closer. Miller knew that the Highway Patrol roadblock should be just beyond the vehicle. But the road was open. Somehow the obstruction never materialized. Miller shaded her eyes as the desert raced by outside. One of the lost NHP cruisers could still be seen lying in a ditch to the side of the road, but the second one was missing completely. Someone must have cleared it away. Abraham was right; the roadblock was gone.

  Father Abraham zipped by the spot, the Winnebago shaking all the while. And then Miller remembered: Back then, Scratch had ordered his gang to put Miller and Terrill Lee in the back of the second cruiser and said to drive them into town. Scratch had subsequently rescued her and Terrill Lee and a woman named Darla from his own gang, driving them off in the cruiser and accidentally into a pack of over a hundred zombies. The horde had almost killed them all. That was back when Miller was first learning to trust Scratch.

  But can I trust him, she thought. Have I been wrong all along? Has Scratch just been working me?

  The wreckage and carnage faded away. They were out on the open highway headed north to Elko, just as they'd planned. For the first time, Miller relaxed. She truly felt that things were going their way for a change. Father Abraham was still driving at top speed, but he handled the Winnebago well, and the road was wide open here, offering him nothing to run into, which made his reckless speed seem a tad more tolerable. Miller considered. At the rate they were going, they would be in Elko in an hour, tops. They were on their way out of the danger zone. Miller looked back at her people. They had picked up the vibe. Lovell and Rat were trying to nap. Sheppard was out. Elizabeth had also closed her eyes.