The Hungry (Book 2): The Wrath of God (12 page)

It was still dark when Terrill Lee woke Miller up with a gentle nudge. She opened one eye and watched her breath gush like smoke into the frosty morning air. Miller found herself flat on her back near the embers of the fire. Scratch was gone. The stars were fading as the warming dawn crept up onto the horizon with a long, flattened streak of rainbow mist.

"Wha's goin' on?" Miller mumbled sleepily.

"Come see," Terrill Lee said.

Miller looked around their little camp. Lovell was in the process of putting out the fire. People seemed to be missing, perhaps gone to answer nature's call. Miller yawned. She rolled her head to the side. Across the clearing, she watched Psycho, who was supporting Sheppard as he stepped up into a dented, scratched up, blue and white Winnebago. Scratch and Rat were talking to the white-bearded driver through the open cabin window. Miller sat up suddenly.

Wait.
A
Winnebago?

"See? I found us a ride," said Terrill Lee, smugly. He puffed up his chest like a proud cat that had just dropped a dead mouse on her bedroom pillow.

"Oh, yeah," said Lovell sarcastically without looking up. "You found it all by your little lonesome."

Terrill Lee's face reddened. "All right. Whatever. We have a ride."

Miller stretched. Her body felt sore and stiff. "Why didn't you wake me earlier?" She stood up and dusted herself off.

"Scratch said you needed your sleep," Terrill Lee said, with a hostile undercurrent in his voice. Miller wondered what else Scratch had told him, but that would have to wait.
Men…

"Who is that guy?" Miller asked, with a yawn. "Do we know anything about him?"

"Oh, don't worry," Terrill Lee said. "Abraham seems harmless enough."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" asked Miller suspiciously.

Before Terrill Lee could answer, Scratch turned to her and waved her over. "Penny, I want you to meet someone."

Miller crossed the fifteen yards to the Winnebago with a jog. She stopped, stood next to Scratch, and looked up into the streaked window, trying to make out the figure backlit by the interior lights. The man sitting there was nearly bald, but sported a magnificent white beard. He appeared to be about sixty years old, had ice-blue eyes and a round, bulbous nose gone red from years of alcohol abuse. The man wore a bright blue Hawaiian shirt that was open at the collar with cotton-ball puffs of white chest hair peeking out. A huge turquoise cross adorned his neck. Miller took stock of him as her law enforcement instincts kicked in. Miller guessed that this man had been many things, but "harmless" probably wasn't one of them.

"Penny, I want you to meet Father Abraham. Father Abraham, this here is Sheriff Penny Miller from over in Flat Rock."

"A pleasure to meet such a beautiful representative of the local law enforcement community," Abraham said. He touched his eyebrow as if tipping a hat. He smiled at her, and Miller saw that he was missing several teeth.

Miller smiled back. They needed a ride. "Howdy," she said sweetly, unsure of exactly how to address him. "We really appreciate you stopping by."

"I am a shepherd of lost souls, Sheriff. I saw your fire. Lands sake, I could hardly drive by and allow you and your friends to become devoured by the minions of the Evil One, only to join their ranks. I felt directed to your camp. God has declared that we should meet. We are all powerless against the will of Yahweh." Again Abraham gave the mock hat-tipping gesture. Miller began to take that for a nervous tic.

"I was just thinking almost the exact same thing," Miller turned to Scratch. "So what's the new plan?"

Rat spoke first. "Abraham here is going to give us a ride the hell out of Dodge. Scratch says this is your old stomping ground, so I guess you know better than I do where we're going. Abraham has food and medical supplies, and says he knows where to get even more."

"You are as lovely as you are correct, my child," Abraham leered. "But perhaps we should continue this conversation on the road. It will be first light soon, and I would like to put as much distance as possible between this pit of Hell and our mortal souls."

"Good thinking," Rat said, dryly.

"Shall we go?" Abraham turned to face Miller. He smiled toothlessly and touched his eyebrow again.

"I guess."

Miller turned toward the door of the Winnebago, but pulled up short. She took Scratch's elbow and stopped him before he entered the giant vehicle. She spoke in low tones while the others stepped aboard.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"I ain't worried about old Abraham," said Scratch. "He seems harmless enough."

"That's exactly the same stupid thing that Terrill Lee just said," Miller whispered. "What does that mean, anyway?"

"It means that getting into this here Winnebago is a hell of a better idea than all of us hoofing thirty klicks carrying a wounded man."

"Just stay sharp, Scratch."

"Don't worry your pretty little head, I won't let anything happen to you."

"That's very manly of you," said Miller.

"Just doing my job."

He went up the metal stairs. Miller hesitated, alone in the empty clearing as the sun came out for the day. She put one foot on the stairs. Scratch reached out a hand and Miller took it. He winked. She stepped on board.

The interior of the Winnebago was a disastrous mess. The décor reminded Miller of a psychopath's photo wall, or maybe a party bus after a particularly long and depraved college trip to Vegas. Strings of lights dangled from the ceiling and walls and bottles and food containers dating back from before the zombie outbreak littered every horizontal surface. A beaded curtain separated the bedroom area of the vehicle from the front. Miller didn't care to find out how Abraham's bedroom was decorated, but she somehow pictured tasteless nudes, samurai swords, and a vibrating mattress beneath a mirror-tiled ceiling.

Miller paused before finding a seat. The most prominent feature of the interior was the spray paint. In black letters, surrounded by neon orange, were the words, "DEviNe wiLL," sprawled across the wall opposite the door.

Sheppard sat on the sofa that lined the driver's side wall, his leg sprawled out in front of him. Psycho sat next to him in a posture that Miller could only term, "At ease." Not relaxed, but not at attention either. Miller chose not to sit nearby, but instead occupied the passenger seat up front. She wanted to get to know their host a little better, and Miller couldn't think of a better position to mount an interrogation. The heater had recently been running, and the front of the Winnebago was blissfully warm. Unfortunately, the heat also brought out Abraham's gamey body odor, but after the rotting stench of the base, she could live with it.

"So, Abraham, how did you happen to be way out here in the first place?"

Abraham snapped out of a daze as if seeing her for the first time. Miller wondered how tightly he was wrapped. His eyes traveled up and down her form, drinking her in, and lingered at her breasts for much longer than socially appropriate. She resisted the urge to remind him where her own eyes were, but endured the lecherous inspection. Miller had learned a long time back that a man in lust was also unguarded and dumb as a fence post.

Finally, he looked up at her face. "What was the question, my child?"

"What were you doing way out here all alone?" she repeated slowly.

"Searching for those left behind after the Rapture," Abraham said. "Even the damned need succor. Besides, I have access to fuel, so I drive every day in the hopes of finding new converts."

Miller let that word pass. "And how did you find us again?"

"As I already said, this was God's will. I saw your campfire, and it seemed very out of place, and thus God commanded me to investigate. You see, the minions of the Evil One do not build bonfires."

"No, I reckon they don't." She turned to see that everyone else was on board.

"We're ready to head out, Sheriff," said Rat.

"Nous allons!"
shouted Abraham suddenly. He turned the Winnebago's engine over, and accelerated with a lurch. Miller grabbed the armrests. He made a high-G turn to the left, causing the others to hold onto something solid as well to avoid being thrown from their seats. The wheels churned in the dirt. The sun beat through the tinted windows as the morning took hold. Abraham drove. Again, he was a madman. He managed to get back onto the base road without incident, but then took the speed bumps at full velocity, causing the Winnebago to buck like an enraged rodeo bull. Miller looked back at Scratch and Terrill Lee and mouthed the word, "harmless." She shook her head.

They were on the road back to Flat Rock for about five minutes before Miller tried another question.

"Abraham?"

"
Father
Abraham, my child."

Miller took a deep breath. She let it out slowly. "Father Abraham, I'm still wondering what you are doing driving around alone out here in Zombie Central when there's a military quarantine on and plenty of safe places outside of Nevada to head to. You've obviously got transportation and plenty of gas."

Father Abraham didn't respond.

"Seems kind of dangerous to me, is all."

"My flock is here," Abraham said. "Who will tend to the spiritual needs of the lost if not me? I am an instrument of the Divine Will." Miller could hear the capital letters and see the clumsy words scrawled on concrete walls.

Miller decided to try being relatable. "I haven't seen that you have any weapons though you obviously have enough food. You must be under God's protection to have survived this long out here."

"I am, my child. I am."

"Where do you hail from, Father?"

"I am a citizen of the Universe."

"Hell of a long commute," Miller said. "You got any family here in Nevada?"

"You are my family, child. All of God's creation is my family." He closed his eyes as if praying. "Even the damned."

"That's good to know." Miller watched the road slip by as the sun slowly rose behind them. The pale emptiness was reassuring. "So you've just been driving around Nevada, saving lost souls?"

"God's will be done."

"I mean, don't you have a base of operations, or something?"

"The desert is my church. My altar stands wherever there are those in need of salvation."

"All right," she said. Miller was getting frustrated. She was no stranger to interrogation, but she had no way to compel Abraham to give straight answers. She couldn't exactly arrest him, even though he was in violation of the quarantine. But then again, so was she. Hell, anyone who wasn't dead was breaking the rules at this point.

She turned to see Terrill Lee inspecting Sheppard's wound.

"How's he doing?" she asked.

Terrill Lee looked at her and made a face. "Let's just say I'm not exactly ecstatic about how his wound is progressing."

Miller could see he was deeply concerned. He only used that roundabout way of talking when he didn't want to upset someone. Sheppard was no fool.

"It's infected, isn't it?" Sheppard was sweating with pain. "I feel horrible."

Terrill Lee made another, thoughtful face. "I'd be a hell of a lot happier if I could get you to a hospital. As it is, you sure could use a broad-spectrum antibiotic. You allergic to anything I should know about?"

"No," Sheppard said with his teeth gritted. "I wish I could help you, Terrill Lee, but my medkit is back at the base."

Abraham tuned in and spoke up while wrestling the wheel. "There are some medical supplies in the cabinet above the sink, and there are a few things in the refrigerator. I am not a medical man, but perhaps what you seek is there."

Terrill Lee stood up and carefully made his way back to the indicated cabinet. He sorted though some of the things there, and pulled out a couple of small syringes, alcohol swabs, some tape, and fresh gauze. Then he went to the fridge and poked around. His face split into a cheerful grin.

"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."