The Hungry (Book 3): At the End of the World (23 page)

“Come on!”

Miller and Scratch trotted up the steps and out into the wrecked kitchen. They stepped over the dead, the dying, and the still twitching undead, saw a clear spot and ran for it. They shoved flaming timbers and shattered furniture out of the way, along with cracked plates, shattered glass, and scorching hot silverware, and finally emerged into the smoky hallway. Scratch still held Miller by the hand. Blackened wood and flames surrounded them. They ran on and on, crouched and coughing, moving down the hallway, and quickly looked out into the wreckage of the once-beautiful old hunting lodge.

It was a total shambles, of course. The stuffed bear was on fire, as was most of the south wall, and support beams on the ceiling were steadily burning, shifting, and collapsing. Motionless bodies smoldered on the ground where they’d fallen. A few stray zombies were snacking on the guts of some of the more fortunate dead, those who hadn’t turned before dying. Miller felt an overpowering urge to terminate every one of these damned monsters along the way out, but couldn’t spare the time or the ammunition. She knew Scratch felt the same way, but escape mattered far more than revenge. They studied the path ahead of them.

It was now or never.

“What do you think?” Scratch asked. “Shall we dance?”

Miller squinted into the smoke. The front window seemed half a mile away, their path across a stunning obstacle course of fire, scorched furniture, and writhing flesh. It was a nightmare. Still, what was their alternative?

Miller waved away the dark haze. She tensed up. She spotted a completely naked chubby teenaged zombie boy. The thing started shambling their way. He was soon right in their path. Miller sighted on his forehead and squeezed the trigger. The ugly creature fell sideways onto the flaming couch, kicked twice, and stopped moving. Miller bent forward below the wall of smoke. She took two deep, oddly bitter breaths and patted Scratch on the arm.

“Let’s move!”

Scratch helped her get her balance. They both took off at a run. For a moment the way seemed clear. They made it as far as the reception desk, where the hard wood was already snapping and crackling like a Yule fire, before the first triad of zombies stopped them. The undead formed the expected triangle pattern. One stepped forward past the edge of the desk, arms raised and mouth open, posturing to draw attention, while the other two went wide and looked for a chance to ambush their distracted prey. Without hesitating, Scratch jogged forward. He swung his fire axe at the lead one, at a slight angle, and the head and a good part of the neck came away from the body. Miller turned left and shot the next one. She spun around, decided to save a round, kicked the third onto its ass and stomped its brains flat. They were moving so quickly she did not even register how the three looked or who they had once been.

Scratch led Miller through the smoke-filled lobby of the flaming lodge. Even over the crackling of the scorching fire and the groans of the now dying humans, they could hear more starving zombies heading their way. The constant moans.
Hunhhh… unhhh…

They kept on moving.

Scratch held his hand up, signaling for a brief pause. They hunkered down near what had been a magazine rack and an end table. They could now hear the sound of sporadic gunfire, a popping noise that attracted their attention to the left. Someone else was alive in here. Through the haze Miller could just make out the sight of a few survivalists taking down another triad of zombies. The men were shouting and putting up a valiant fight but it was clear they were badly outnumbered. Scratch looked her way with an eyebrow raised. Miller hesitated. She hated leaving humans behind to die.

As if reading her mind, Scratch croaked, “Those sons-of-bitches would probably just shoot us too, if we gave ‘em a chance.”

“True.”

“Would they have risked their lives for us?”

Miller shook her head. “Let’s go.”

They moved on, staying low and as out of sight as possible, still working their way through towards the front window. Miller thought she caught one sweet whiff of clean air. Perhaps Scratch was right, and the window had been blown completely out, or the main doors stood wide open. It was difficult to see anything more than a few feet away. The air was thick and foul. They were both coughing and blinking sweat from their eyes. There were still an awful lot of zombies around. More than Miller had expected. They had probably just stumbled across a motherload of people who’d been on the run from the cities.

Miller stepped over two sections of a dead State Patrol officer. The top half lay sideways on the floor, uniform impeccable despite the chaos; the bottom half was nearby, but burnt to a crisp. As she passed the top half of the cop a bloody claw of a hand reached up and grabbed Miller’s leg. She lost her balance and started to stumble toward that open maw, those snapping teeth. Scratch caught the back of her belt and hauled Miller upright again. He severed the cop’s hand from its wrist. The hand dropped off Miller’s leg. They ignored the rest of the zombie. It was not going anywhere quickly enough to avoid getting burned up. That creature was no longer a threat. They had plenty of other things to worry about.

As they crossed the lobby the thumping noises grew and grew and became deafening as more timbers fell. They heard wood breaking, flames roaring, and the constant hiss and pop of fabric and glass heated to glowing globules.

“Penny,” Scratch hollered, “I think we’re almost there.”

Miller shouted in Scratch’s ear. “There’s wind coming in from somewhere outside. I can feel it. The fire will eat it up and explode. This whole place will be coming down soon.”

They found themselves inside of a dense, black cloud that felt solid as marble. They crawled, ducking down under the filthy smoke and creeping threads of deadly flame. They were both hacking badly now, eyes blood red and dirty noses running. Their faces were dark and smeared from tears and sweat. Miller tapped Scratch on the shoulder to signal him to pause. She could now see the front of the lobby. A nearly clear path lay just ahead. They had a shot at escape after all.

“There’s an opening,” Miller shouted.

Scratch looked and nodded, but then grimaced. There was just one little problem. Below the line of black smoke, they could see feet everywhere, moving to and fro aimlessly, dirty feet that were stumbling around, dragging back and forth. Dead feet, some shod in boots or shoes and some naked, but all bloody and torn one way or another. One large horde of zombies blocked their way and still posed a threat. They had stumbled through the fire and now were directly in the path to safety. Miller saw even more zombies were coming into the lodge, entering through their escape route. They must have become confused. Scratch and Miller were screwed. She moved closer to communicate. They exchanged a grim look.

“I haven’t got enough ammo to take all of them out.”

“I know.”

“We’ll have to try something else.”

Scratch peered through the smoke. He was also desperately looking for another way out, some other alternative. There wasn’t one. The zombie horde was closing in. Perhaps it was just that their hunger overrode any instinct to flee from fire or noise. Most of the creatures seemed to have assembled closer to the front window than the entrance. Maybe they smelled someone alive in that area. Hell, it was fast becoming a humanoid barbeque. Miller thought it over and quickly came to a decision. She pointed right toward the front door. “Okay, I think we can make it out that way.”

Scratch looked. They could indeed see a thin shaft of daylight, like a beam from another dimension. He nodded, coughed, and spat on the floor. “Let’s do it.”

They turned to head that way, and began to crawl on their elbows. Miller got ahead of Scratch. She was determined to lead him out. Her eyes burned and her lungs felt dry and ever desperate for clean air, but she now had another small glimmer of hope. They were going to get out of the building, make a run for the helicopter, and that would be the end of it. She’d settle for nothing less. Scratch would live. She would live. Miller sped up, moving as fast as she could, even rose to her feet to stumble forward. She kept her head down and her arm up to wave away the smoke.

And then she saw a pair of gore-stained pant legs standing directly in front of her. A man’s legs were blocking their escape. There was one more zombie in the way. Miller looked up, her heart in her throat.

Terrill Lee.

The wind shifted a bit, and the clear air allowed Miller to fully see his face.

There was a large chunk of his skull missing. It looked as if he had meant to shoot himself, but had panicked at the last second, held the gun at the wrong angle, and blew a hole in the side and top of his head. Evidently there had been just enough of his brain left for him to come back. He was disfigured, wet, burnt, and bloody. He was also Terrill Lee, and the sight of him tore at her heart.

Suddenly Terrill Lee reached out for Miller, with that insatiable hunger glowing in his eggshell-whitened eyes. She froze when she heard that familiar voice, that terrible sound.
Unhhh… hunhhh…

Miller somehow managed to stand up to face him, but other than that couldn’t move. She stood there for what felt like forever. She could hear Scratch behind her, screaming for her to do something, asking her to at least get the hell out of the way so he could do it. And Penny Miller knew she should move, she wanted to move, but there was something so unutterably sad about seeing her ex-husband’s blank expression, so devoid of life. She despised his condition, but accepted the horrific choice she’d now been given; almost as if it was karma for the both of them, and had been fated to happen this way.

“Penny, move!” Scratch was calling.

They were losing precious time. Behind them, many of the other zombies had located their scent, heard Scratch shouting and spotted the movement. Several from the kitchen were now clambering over furniture and corpses, moaning and groaning and getting closer and closer to Miller and Scratch, probably the only fresh meat left in the burning lodge. They tripped on each other in their frenzy to feed.

Broken-hearted, Miller studied Terrill Lee. His arms were raised, fingers spread wide. His teeth, red with what was likely someone else’s fresh blood, were bared. He should not be here anymore, he was a monster now. He grunted.
Unhhhh… hunh…

And yet he had not attacked her. Terrill Lee also remained frozen in place. Perhaps he recognized her in some way, Miller thought. Perhaps he hesitated from distantly remembered love. Either way, there was only one thing left to do.

Miller raised the pistol and fired.

The top of Terrill Lee’s skull vanished. He was free. He fell over backwards with his arms spread wide. Scratch reached out for Miller. He hugged her fiercely, understanding her pain. He waved away smoke and pointed a grimy finger straight ahead. The remaining creatures, so greedy to feed, had stumbled their way without properly protecting their flank.

The way to the front door was clear.

Scratch and Miller ran for it again. They ran with everything they had left.

They burst out into the welcome chill of the morning air. They both trotted several yards into the bright sunshine before they even stopped to rest.

Scratch was coughing and taking deep breaths. He greedily bit into a handful of snow for the water. Miller joined him, used some snow to wipe the grime from her face. Miller had never been so happy to see the sun in her life. The clean, fresh air was the most welcome thing she had ever experienced. They turned to study the lodge. They watched as the beams above their exit collapsed for good, hopefully raining fire and damnation on the rest of the zombies trapped inside.

Scratch was still gasping. “We have to get to that helicopter. Where is it?”

“Rat said they’d be on the other side of the lake.”

They both turned to look, but no matter where they looked, they couldn’t see anything but empty snow. The chopper wasn’t there. It was gone.

“Those fucking sons of bitches left without us,” growled Scratch. “Whatever happened to ‘no man left behind’?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Miller, her heart sinking. She looked into the woods, and thought she saw faces—dead, hungry faces—lurking there. “At least Sheppard and the boys are with Rat. It’s just us. We’ll have to find our own way.”

“Bastards,” said Scratch under his breath.

Miller tugged on his arm. “Grumble later. Right now, we have to find us a vehicle and get the hell out of Dodge.”

“Sheriff. Scratch.”

They turned to see Constable Crosby standing there, pointing an assault rifle at them. The look on his face was one of pure hate.

This time, Miller didn’t hesitate. She brought the pistol up, aimed, and fired at Crosby. The shot went wide, but did clip his ear. He flinched in pain.

The slide locked open. She was out of ammunition.

Crosby brought the assault rifle up. He pointed it in their direction and fired.

Scratch lunged for Miller and she found herself flying sideways in the chill air. Scratch grunted with pain as he landed on top of her. He rolled away into a snow drift. “Get into the trees. Go!”

Miller scrambled behind a large pine. She took a quick look around for zombies. Miller knew better than to let her guard down. Her luck tended to turn from bad to worse in a New York minute.

“Hey, Jim,” said Crosby. He sounded almost friendly. He was limping, and blood flowed from his leg and his ear, staining his tan uniform. “What a night, eh?” The rifle was now pointed directly at Scratch’s chest.

Scratch stood and put up his hands. He kept moving away from Miller. “Hey, Carter. Just like senior prom, right?”

She instantly understood. Scratch was sacrificing himself to save her. She would have been touched if it wasn’t the dumbest thing he’d done since he shot Miller in the shoulder back in her jailhouse.