The Hungry (Book 2): The Wrath of God (17 page)

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.

Miller felt her stomach rumble. She was hungry. She needed rest too, but was afraid to let go and nap. Maybe Rat had a point. If she didn't take proper care of herself, the group could end up in chaos. Miller tried to close her eyes but they popped back open. She studied the world passing by.

The desert scenery was beautiful and bleak as always. Miller loved it deeply. She was used to open spaces, having grown up in Montana and Nevada, but she never really got used to the emptiness of this part of the desert. She would never have moved to Flat Rock in the first place if it weren't for Terrill Lee and his having purchased a veterinary practice. She had been perfectly happy being a beat cop in Carson City—there was always plenty going on in the capitol. Her first few years in Flat Rock had felt more like prison than "an escape from the big city," as Terrill Lee had phrased it. Then thinking of Terrill Lee made her want to cry again.
God,
she thought,
I'm getting soft in my old age.

If old Sheriff Lawson hadn't been such a complete fuck-up, Miller would have settled into the life of a deputy. The deceased Bob Wells had theoretically "trained" her—which meant sitting in a sheriff's cruiser with him while he told crude jokes, cut farts, and made passes at Miller. After doing Mike Lawson's job and her own for a couple of years, Miller decided that Flat Rock needed a professional law enforcer in the Sheriff's office, not the bloated politician Lawson had become. Miller was young, she was experienced, she was a hell of a lot prettier than Lawson, and between her duties as a deputy and Terrill Lee's connections, she had the political clout to pull off the election. Miller had kept Wells on because, when all was said and done, he was a pretty good deputy. Miller had settled into married life with Terrill Lee and a professional routine. The time hadn't passed so badly.

Miller snapped out of it. Unable to nap, she went back to her memories. She'd had the sheriff's headquarters remodeled a couple of times, adding a modern jail and a kitchen for the prisoners, and basically made the place look like a police station rather than a fat-cat's office. Her marriage ended up on the rocks, but the job was okay. That comfortable routine had been broken up by the onset of the zombie plague. Her life had been turned upside down, but then, so had everyone else's, so Miller really couldn't complain.

She studied Father Abraham. Something about the man made her nervous. They needed him for the vehicle, but once they got closer to civilization, Miller decided she might cut the old man loose. Not in any way where his life would be endangered, but she wanted to protect her group, and didn't consider Abraham one of them.

Finally, Miller closed her eyes for a few moments. She fell asleep.

After traveling several miles, Father Abraham began slowing down. Miller woke up. She saw that they were close to the entrance to the state nature reserve that bordered on the Ruby Mountains. The large sign outside it remained untouched, though a few cars lay still by the side of the road, metal corpses rotting away in the unrelenting heat.

"What's going on?" asked Rat.

Father Abraham turned to look back at them. He winked, smiled. "Awaken. God has spoken to us."

Miller cleared her throat and rubbed her eyes. "Excuse me?"

Abraham had turned back to face the road. He spun the wheel and abruptly headed for the entrance to the reserve.

"Abraham? What, exactly did God say?"

"God commanded us to make a quick stop, Sheriff Miller. After all, I offered to make you a fine meal, and I have yet to follow through on that vow. I will soon. I promise I shall serve you shortly."

"We have enough supplies with us," protested Sheppard, speaking for the first time in a while. "Why don't we stay on the highway and eat on the way?"

"Nonsense, my son." Abraham turned his attention back to the road.

"This is not a good idea," Rat said. She and Miller exchanged worried looks. Lovell seemed to be sleeping.

Miller shifted in her seat. "I'm with Rat. I'm asking nicely, here, because it's your Winnebago. Please go back to the highway."

Father Abraham ignored them both. He rolled through the entrance to the preserve without slowing down. There was a stream nearby, runoff from the Ruby Mountains, and some decent pines in a neat row, green soldiers on parade. The lower forest and cherry trees lay beyond. There was a fork, then two open paved tracks. Abraham whistled something vaguely spiritual. He turned the wheel again and took the road to the left. The blue and gray rock formations passed.