The Hungry (23 page)

Miller was moving Terrill Lee in an instant. She tore the rifle out of his hands and put him in an armlock on the floor. He was pinned down before he knew what hit him. Shots peppered the metal walls of the church bus, punching holes just over their lowered heads. Sheppard was cursing under his breath, hunkered down on the metal panels by his seat.

"Stay down," Miller said. The order was meant for both of them. The firing stopped. She peered out of one of the windows at the waiting bikers. Everyone outside, including Scratch and Ragnarok, was now staring up at the bus. The gang was watching her as she looked out into the night. Miller's nostrils filled with the dank smell of blood and viscera from the corpse just below the door. That was an odor she'd hoped they wouldn't encounter again, at least not quite this soon.

"You okay in there, Sheriff?" called Scratch. Then he caught himself and the macho mask returned. "Shit, I mean I wouldn't want one of my little bitches to get all shot to pieces for no good reason."

Before Miller could organize an appropriate answer, she heard a familiar low humming sound in the distance but moving closer.
Oh, man. Bad to worse.

Ragnarok called out, "Man, this Sheriff, she sure has your ass pussy whipped." The huge biker shook his head theatrically. "Man, I actually used to look up to you, Jim. You know that?"

Scratch's head snapped around, moved so fast that Miller thought it would come off.
Uh oh, now he's pissed. Does he hear that sound, too? If so, what's his plan?

It was Scratch's turn to take a step forward. The men were inching towards one another, working their way up to the inevitable confrontation. "Up yours. That ain't my name, little brother, any more than Artie is yours."

"Mama would say otherwise, if she were still alive."

"You leave our mother out of this, little brother," said Scratch.

Brothers? Those two?
Miller thought,
you have got to be fucking kidding me.

Ragnarok put his hand on his hip. He drew a large, ugly-looking handgun with an oddly shaped barrel. "I'm sorry it had to come down to this, Jim." Miller could see the rest of the bikers drawing their weapons now, most aiming them at both Scratch and the blue church bus. That low thrumming sound nagged at her again, but she wasn't sure how good her elevated hearing was, how far away the sound actually was, or if Scratch could even hear it. Miller was distracted anyway, concentrating on Scratch. She was waiting for him to make his play, so she could react.

Rag said, "I never thought it would be me who blew your ass to Omaha."

"Nebraska's kind of sad. I spent a year there one night." Scratch kept his hands away from his sides, though Miller could see the butt of a large pistol sticking out of his waistband.

"I'm going to have to kill you now," Rag said. He actually sounded sorry. "Suppose we'll both be famous for this, bro."

"Yeah," said Scratch, "folks will make up songs." He reached for the pistol, and dodged to his left. Miller watched him drop and roll to avoid the first few shots. He was moving away from the church bus, drawing their fire his way.

The sound of a dozens of guns going off all at once rolled through the bus. Then something else, something even louder and far more destructive.
WHOMP!
Miller heard glass breaking, metal screeching, men screaming outside. She raised her head a bit and watched the motorcycles across the road fly apart as if detonated like a thousand tons of TNT. Miller realized what she'd been hearing all along. The Army choppers had found them. Absolute chaos was followed a moment later by the low overpass of two almost silent Apache helicopters. The row of bikers on the other side of the bus barely had a chance to look up before the Apaches came around for another strafing run. It wasn't anything like a fair fight. This was a slaughter.

The bikers were wiped out within seconds. The choppers were deadly, precise and horrifyingly efficient. Miller weighed her options. Scratch was gone, perhaps lost in the explosion. Ragnarok had fallen to the ground. The huge man was still, huddled up and covering his ears. Miller got up. She realized she was the only one on the bus who was still standing. All the other men were either dead or curled up in the fetal position.

Now that the motorcycles engines were silent, the lower sound of approaching Blackhawks filled the church bus.
Here we go again. Out of the frying pan and face first into the waiting fire…

Miller exchanged glances with Sheppard, who had now gotten up on his knees. Sheppard just shrugged. There really wasn't anything left to say. They'd have to play these new cards to stay alive.

The smoke from the wasted biker gang swirled in low spider web patterns as the Blackhawks came around to land. They parked just in front of the blue church bus. The blades whistled and sang merrily. Miller took a deep breath. She gagged at the stench of scorched human meat.

Miller stared at Terrill Lee. Said, "You two just stay the fuck down and look for a chance to run." Then she went to the open door of the bus. The torso part of Wells' shattered body blocked the step down. She gently shoved it out of the way. She gathered up her tattered dress. She went outside and looked around. Their position was ringed by heavily armed choppers. The blue bus itself was surrounded by wrecked iron and backlit by blazing fires. The night air reeked.

Scratch was nowhere to be seen. Ragnarok lay crumpled up in a heap a few yards to her right. As Miller watched, he tried to crawl away. She just shook her head and turned her attention to the Blackhawks. Miller knew she'd have to negotiate to save the others. Make some kind of deal in exchange for her cooperation.

Four men exited from the helicopter on the right, and five stepped down from the one on the left. One man, the tallest, was clearly in command. Sheppard left the bus against orders. He appeared behind her. Whispered, "Oh, shit."

Miller knew, but didn't want to know. She turned to him with a questioning look on her face, maybe hoping for a different answer.

"Sanchez." The man on the left.

Miller walked away from the bus. Sheppard followed a yard or so behind. Terrill stayed hiding. Miller set herself. She stood waiting for the colonel to approach. Sanchez took his time, examining the surroundings and then taking in Rag hunkered there in the dirt, covering his ears. With one finger he ordered a man to take Rag prisoner. Sanchez absorbed Miller as she stood there, at ease in her bloody wedding dress, hair whipping in the rotor wash from the helicopters. He and his men stopped a few yards away. He was just far enough that it would be difficult for Miller to attack without being stopped by the soldiers.

"Sheriff Miller," he said, "Do you remember me? I'm Colonel Andre Sanchez."

"Sure. And now I know quite a bit about you, actually, Colonel." Her tone was neutral, controlled.

"Of course you do," he said. "I'm sure Sergeant Sheppard briefed you thoroughly. Hello, Sergeant. You've looked better."

"Colonel," said Sheppard. Miller looked back at him. Her eyes sent a question Sheppard could not answer. Terrill Lee was still nowhere to be seen. Was he hiding on the bus as ordered? Her mind fogged. Was Terrill Lee okay? Had he been wounded or killed as well? That thought bothered her more than she cared to admit. Sanchez was still eyeing Sheppard. He was pissed.

"You disappoint me, Sergeant. I had high hopes for your career."

Sheppard actually managed to laugh. "I really didn't sign up to be the cause of Armageddon, Colonel."

"True, but it appears we are." Sanchez turned back to Miller. "Sheriff, would you be so kind as to accompany me back to the base? We have many things to discuss. This won't take long."

"Or maybe I could just snap your neck here and now," Miller said. "That would keep things short and sweet."

Sanchez sighed theatrically. "Sheriff, you wound me. Many people have died in the last few days. You strike me as the kind of person who would do anything to avoid even more senseless death. Sheppard is a traitor, but also a genius. And I'm sure that together we can find a way to end this unfortunate epidemic."

"Oh, you mean the unfortunate epidemic of the living dead that you started with your little Frankenstein experiments?"

Sanchez nodded. "Yes, that one." He sighed as if making up his mind. "You know, it would be a shame if your ex-husband, who we noted is on the bus over there, were to be killed tonight."

"He's already dead," said Sheppard. "I killed him myself."

Miller blinked. "You
what?
"

"Better that way than let him end up as some kind of zombie experiment. So that threat won't work, sir. What else have you got?"

Sanchez scratched his chin, pondering that statement. Miller looked back at Sheppard, but his face remained impassive.

"You're bluffing," said Sanchez. "I, however, am not."

Sanchez signaled one of the soldiers, who spoke into his shoulder microphone. Miller tensed. The Apaches above were still rumbling around. One turned sharply, coming in for another strafing run. Reluctantly, Miller and Sheppard jogged away from the bus, moving towards the soldiers and the broken Ragnarok, who was kneeling, now in cuffs and sobbing.

A moment later, when Sheppard was safe, Miller turned to go back. It was too late, and they all knew it. Miller stopped. She watched helplessly as the bus was shredded by 30mm rounds. The barrage quickly transformed the old church bus into a hunk of steaming wires and strips of blue tin.
Goodbye, Terrill Lee. And fuck this…
Miller's muscles felt engorged with blood. Her chest swelled. Her senses sharpened further. She calculated how far away each of the men were, decided who to kill first and how to go out like a true warrior.

Miller heard the rush of the soldiers before she saw them. The first one flew at her like a linebacker trying to stop a touchdown. Miller sidestepped him easily, and he landed face first on the smoking asphalt. The next came at her with a club, but in her heightened state of awareness, it seemed like she could grow trees waiting for that club to fall. She snatched it out of his hand, jabbed him in the gut with it, and hit him on the shoulder, just at the base of the neck. Something cracked, and not in a good way. He fell to the ground in a heap.

The sense of movement behind her caught Miller's attention. She turned to face three more attackers. They had her at rifle point, but they were afraid of her now—she could tell by the sickly-sweet adrenaline stench of their sweat. Miller was a goddess, she was done being afraid, and she flowed up to the first one in a blur, snatched the weapon out of his hand, swept his leg out from under him with the butt of the rifle. She turned to the other two. One of them smiled slightly, which made no sense to Miller at all.
He should be ready to piss his pants
, she thought.
Shit!
His eyes were on something behind her. She turned again, but this time not quickly enough. Eight soldiers gang-rushed her all at once, big bodies slamming into hers, hands on her arms and legs, grabbing her around her waist. One of them groped her breasts like some nervous teen finally making it to second base. Miller worked to throw them off, but as a group they were too heavy. She struggled against the pile, lifting hundreds of pounds inches off the ground. She screamed obscenities, called out for both Scratch and Terrill Lee, and managed to kick one of the attackers hard enough that she heard his shin snap. He shrieked and let go. Miller kept fighting, her big heart bursting, emotions torn asunder by grief, but eventually the soldiers managed to secure her by the hands and feet. They stretched out her arm, and one of them stabbed her in the bicep with a needle. A rosy glow drifted up into Miller's brain. The will to fight finally drained out of her.

What's the use… The world is ending… We're all dying…

Miller had gone limp. They dragged her to one of the Blackhawks. They strapped her down onto a stretcher, which they then secured to the floor of the helicopter with small links of chain. It was all over but the shouting. Miller fought to keep her eyes open. Sheppard followed her onto the chopper. He was now handcuffed and bleeding from a wound to his head. A moment later, Ragnarok was brought on board as well. He was bloody and charred, and his teeth were chattering, but now the dumb bastard couldn't stop talking.

"You God-damned cock-sucking trigger-happy jarhead fucks!" Rag screamed. They plopped him down on the deck a few inches away from Miller's head. "I'll tear off your heads and piss down your necks! I'll cut out your eyes and skull-fuck you six ways from Sunday. I'll fuck you up so bad your potted plant will die. Let me go, Roger Ramjet! I'll…" That was the last thing he said. One of the bored soldiers injected him. The good shit hit his system. Rag's head lolled to the side. His eyes lost focus.

Thunder filled the night again. The sleek helicopters revved up and took off, speeding southeast. Eyes closed, Miller actually cried a bit. Poor Lance Wells, Terrill Lee and now even Scratch were gone. After all that effort, she and Sheppard had been recaptured anyway. They were headed back to the enemy's base. They'd lost the war, and there wasn't a goddamned thing Miller could do about it.

She passed out.

SIXTEEN

The harsh world intruded on her comfortable silence. They were somewhere in the military base. The overhead lights flickered, perhaps from a power surge. Miller stayed quiet, willing the drugs from her system. Her eyelids went dark and pink again. She didn't want to open her eyes yet. Her body bumped and twitched and she could hear the grinding squeal of metal wheels. So she was on a gurney, strapped down tight. She risked a peek. They were wheeling her across the helicopter hangar. Soldiers scurried to and fro everywhere, efficiently but this time with a hint of panic in their movements. Their world, like everyone else's, was suddenly spinning out of control.

Serves you fuckers right.

Miller decided to play possum. She was disoriented, head fogged from the drugs they had injected. She needed to gather herself. This was bad. She wanted to care where they were taking her, wanted to fight back, especially to rip that Sanchez dirtbag apart like greasy fried chicken, but she didn't have the will or the muscle strength. Sadness swept over her like a wave of warm salt water. Everyone she had worked so hard to save was gone. Terrill Lee, Scratch, Wells, that poor girl Darla, her deputy back at the jail… She had lost so many others along the way, even those poor zombies who'd died again by the hundreds. Only Sheppard was left, a captive who would be considered a traitor, and that meant he was screwed, blued and tattooed. As for herself, Miller knew that they were going to turn her into a guinea pig, poke her like a pincushion. She couldn't have cared less. She felt like a total loser.