The Hungry (27 page)

They paused to catch their breath. The loud gunfire above came in rapid bursts but it was coming from far fewer weapons. The human shouts and screams also came far less frequently. Not a good sign.

Miller said, "How'd you two get here so fast?"

"Scratch managed to salvage one of the motorcycles," said Terrill Lee.

"I salvaged two," corrected Scratch. "But this dumb-ass can't ride."

Terrill Lee craned his neck to look back at Scratch. "You're not going to start that again, are you?"

"Mighta gotten here in time to do some good…"

"Shut up and run," Miller snapped.

They took off again, still following Sheppard. Scratch had some trouble keeping up. He was puffing now, face turning bright red. Too much time on his ass on a road hog. Scratch called to Sheppard. "You think you can slow up a tad there, Rambo?"

"We're almost topside," said Sheppard. Reluctantly, he changed his pace to accommodate the others. They found another long ramp, a few more stairs. Sheppard paused. He set himself for what was to come. He pushed open a pair of double doors that led into the helicopter hangar.

What he saw there made him stop short. The others ran into him from behind.

Miller said, "Aw, Jesus on a slice of wheat toast."

The place was chaos. A seemingly endless horde of hungry zombies were pouring into the chopper hangar through the large overhead doors. By the tens and twenties they dropped fifty feet from the roof to the floor. The dead don't die, so on they came, just picking themselves up to stumble forward on shattered legs or crawl on hands and elbows. Drooling, moaning, grunting and snapping at the air with ruined teeth. Miller looked up. Thousands and thousands waited above for their turn to enter the fray. The soldiers had machine gun positions set up, and a constant stream of bullets flew at the entering zombies. Most of the uncoordinated barrage did little or no good, either missing the enemy entirely as panicked soldiers forgot to aim, or landing harmlessly in the creatures' torsos, arms and legs. Maybe one shot in a hundred was that critical head shot. The humans were losing the war.

"Fall back! Fall back!" The words choked off into an agonized scream.

Miller and the others watched helplessly as several soldiers in a forward position were overrun by raging zombies. Their awful screams were loud enough to be heard over the racket of the perimeter alarm, the creatures, the quieting gunfire and the shouting. And just a moment later, the screams stopped. Soon those soldiers joined the ranks of the zombies, shuffling forward along with soccer moms, truckers, little girls, baseball players, and just about everyone else from the surrounding towns and farms. The overall effect was stunning.

"Where the fuck are the helicopters?" Scratch, still breathing hard.

"No clue," said Sheppard. "They probably took off after evacuating as many personnel as they could." He looked around, noticed that the hangar was devoid of any vehicles. "Folks, I think we're finally screwed."

Terrill Lee said, "You mean there ain't so much as a Hummer to get us the hell out of here?"

"That ain't the only reason we're screwed," said Miller. She used her .45 to wave at a group of the undead mobbed together across the destroyed hangar. They'd been spotted. The monsters seemed to have noticed fresh meat. As if with some collective mind and appetite, the hungry zombies headed in their direction. A fat priest in a black shirt and white collar led the way. His right arm was missing and his pants were gone. Miller didn't wait to see his johnson. Two boys in jeans and ragged tee shirts followed close behind.

Terrill Lee sighted his M-4 but Miller put her hand on the barrel. She shoved down, hard. "Terrill Lee, I've known you a long time, and if there's one thing you're not, it's a marksman. Save your ammo until it matters. In fact, we all had best be sure we save a few rounds for each other. We may have to go out that way. I don't know about you, but I don't hanker to end up one of them."

"What are we going to do now?" Terrill Lee said. Whined.

"Let's get back inside," said Miller.

Sheppard turned around. He motioned them forward and led the way back to the double doors. "Holy fuck!"

Someone or something appeared in the window of the metal door. It had a rotting face with dark flesh and yellow, crooked teeth. It reached out to them, one hand with three remaining fingers. Miller was going to shoot it in the head when she saw several others closing in behind. A mob of them on the wrong side of the door.

"Looks like we're going to have to find another way out," she said, calmly.

A barrage of bullets erupted from behind the pack of zombies, mowing them down, live ammo whizzing past the heads of Miller and her companions.

"Hold your fire, damn it!" cried Miller, ducking down. "We're alive over here and we'd like to stay that way!"

Miller looked through the horde of zombies, half of whom now lay on the ground, heads blown to jelly. She saw a couple of soldiers in an electric military car with a huge M-60 mounted to the back. They waved to her.

"Take cover," called the driver. "There's a lot more of these crazy zombie fuckers on the way."

"Soldier, the medical wing's been overrun," Sheppard said. "Colonel Sanchez is dead. We all need to abandon the base!"

The driver stared at him for a time. "Sanchez is dead? No shit?"

That was the last thing he ever said.

A hulking zombie in a fast food uniform jumped on the man, knocking him completely out of the driver's seat and down onto the hard pavement. The young man was so dazed he didn't have time to raise his weapon. The zombie, a decaying teen with bad skin, tore out his stomach. The machine gunner, a black kid who rode at the back of the electric car, opened up on both of them, blasting the struggling duo to raw hamburger. Screw aiming for the head, he'd erased their bodies entirely.

A second zombie, a once-pretty teenaged girl in running clothes, tackled the machine gunner. She bit him on the ass. He screamed and grabbed at his butt cheek, but she was clambering up his back, biting and hissing, and once again it was all over before he'd had a chance to defend himself. The zombie girl eyed the M-60 like a dog staring at a computer, wondering how to use it. Seeing that, Scratch let the closest zombies have it. He opened up with the SAW, wiping out a half dozen in a few seconds. "Well, at least it seems like we found that ride you were looking for, Sheriff."

Miller didn't hesitate. "Sheppard, you drive. Scratch, take the M-60. Terrill Lee, take the SAW, get on board and keep your head down. Let's go!"

The four of them took their positions on the electric car. Seconds later, another group of zombies finished snacking on some shrieking soldiers and headed their way. Sheppard stepped on the accelerator. The electric car took off. Sheppard drove like a madman, desperately trying to skirt the new threat. Jerking back and forth, sliding side to side, they raced along the asphalt. The cacophony continued, gunfire and shrieks and the squeal of strained tires boomed off the walls. The world faded a bit. Far behind them, the firing was dying along with the last of the soldiers. They were about to be totally overrun by the undead.

Not one to wait for orders, Scratch began firing. He aimed at the nearest wall of zombies. He shot nonstop for what seemed like forever, and some of them went down for good. Most of them didn't. Torsos kept crawling forward, creatures without legs. The horde was relentless, always starving, beyond insane with blood lust.

"Save your ammo, Scratch," shouted Miller. He couldn't or didn't choose to hear her. Miller could smell his scorched flesh where it had touched the white hot metal casings. The moaning and groaning around them continued. The sounds of the gunfire covered everything but the pounding of her heart. Meanwhile, Sheppard drove through two cargo doors like a man gone batshit crazy. He raced down a dimly lit service corridor. The electric car rocked, the brakes squealed, but the tires held. They kept moving. A moment later, the ammunition belt started clicking dully. Miller's ears were ringing. Her pulse was uncomfortably strong. Something wasn't right. Miller feared having a heart attack.

Scratch was breathing hard and clearly shaken. "Where's the reload?"

"There isn't one," said Miller. "That's what I was trying to tell you."

"Shit." It was all he could think of to say.

"I think you just kind of pissed them off," said Terrill Lee, pointing. The gory, nearly obliterated zombies were just picking themselves up off the blood-slick floor and heading toward them again.

This section of the base seemed virtually deserted, the occupants having been murdered or fled. Sheppard was now going full speed in the little electric car. They hustled down the corridor, moving just fast enough to put a bit of distance between the humans and the pursuing monsters. A little, not much, not enough.

"Shit is right," said Miller, bitterly. She turned to Sheppard, who was gripping the steering wheel. His eyes had gone dull with shock. Miller could read his thoughts,
so many of them, so fucking many of them…

"We need to find someplace to make a stand." Miller turned back. Her head spun. A wave of something broke over her and her stomach heaved. She felt sick. Miller shook it off. She heard another explosion of gunfire to their left. "Head that way, Sheppard."

Sheppard turned the little electric car in the direction Miller had pointed, almost tipping them over, and gunned it again. Another row of creatures appeared in the corridor before them, their horrid, shadowy faces twitching under the emergency lighting. From the opposite corridor came more zombies, yet another large row. Sheppard seemed to snap out of it. He hunched over the wheel. Miller squinted. There was a steadily closing gap between the two groups of zombies that was just big enough for them to get through. Maybe. That is, assuming they could get there in time. Sheppard was betting the farm on one move.

Miller shouted, "Go! Go!"

Penny Miller aimed some well-placed shots, taking down a zombie cheerleader and a bare-assed grandpa with a walker. She kept firing as they zoomed closer, as did Scratch and Terrill Lee, knowing their lives were now on the line. They'd have one chance to pull this off, or else they might have to make good on Miller's suggestion they shoot one another instead. And who wouldn't do anything to avoid becoming one of these things? They closed the distance rapidly and took out one zombie after another, the barrage intended to leave just enough room for the electric car to get through the gap. Closer and closer. And then they were there, in the middle of the two groups, bouncing and crunching over dead flesh and grunting creatures. They broke through to the other side and Miller let out a whoop.

Sheppard turned left, through some double doors and back into the huge, hollow hanger. Miller's joy faded. She swallowed bile again. She now knew something was wrong inside of her, something to do with the damned virus. She studied Sheppard. His head was swiveling back and forth as he tried to think of options, perhaps a hiding place, or some kind of safety for some of the last remaining human beings. He sure was one hell of a driver. He'd surely be able to take over if she fell. Again, Miller lamented his being gay. Terrill Lee called out.

"People!"

On the other side of the hangar, some soldiers, the last holdouts of the living, were amassed behind a wall of barrels and crates.

"There, Sheppard," Miller said. He turned the wheel and headed directly toward the outpost. Miller stood up in the car in her wedding dress. She waved her arms around. Hopefully they wouldn't shoot her dead. After all, zombies didn't wave and shout hello. Of course, they didn't drive electric cars either, at least as far as she knew.
If them rotting bastards learned how to drive, the fat lady would be singing for sure…

The firing stopped as they approached the fort, a corner with a door and no exit. The cobbled together barrier was moved aside. They raced in to temporary safety. Two panicked soldiers, a teenaged private and an exhausted corporal, came out to greet them. Miller rubbed her eyes. She swallowed dryly and felt a bit better.

"Come on, come on." The men ushered a relieved Miller and the others back into the makeshift fort. It was clear they'd all have to take a position and continue to lay down fields of fire, though all they were doing now was postponing the inevitable. The air popped with shells, stank of cordite. Desperation hung heavy on the troops like a damp garment. The dead were going to win by sheer force of numbers. Miller knew it—they all knew it.

The firing began again as soon as they were inside. Only Miller remained standing. The corporal stared at her, but ignored the wedding dress. Smart move. "What the hell are you civilians doing here?"

"They're with me," said Sheppard. "Who's in charge here?"

The corporal eyed Sheppard's stripes. "It looks like you are, Sergeant."

Sheppard looked around at the pitiful survivors. Not true warriors, although they were doing their best. He counted some privates and a few folks from the medical staff, but no officers. Sheppard shook his head. He looked at Miller. "Sheriff, this is a combat situation. Would you do the honors? I'm a medical man. I'll have to defer to your expertise."

Confused, the corporal said, "You're giving command to some civilian in a wedding dress?"

You had to go and mention the dress, you little shit,
Miller thought.

"Sanchez's program worked, corporal." Sheppard said simply. "I'm assuming you've heard the rumors? Well, they were true. And Sheriff Miller is Patient One."

The corporal stepped back suddenly. He was clearly afraid of Miller. "Where's Colonel Sanchez?"

"I killed him," Miller said. "You got a problem with that?"

The corporal stood there with his mouth open. When he collected his wits, he shook his head. He turned to the other soldiers. "Listen up, men! We're taking orders from
her
now!"

"What do you want us to do, Sheriff?" asked Sheppard.

Miller looked around. "How are we set for ammunition?"

"Not so good, Sheriff," said the corporal, whose name tag said O'Brien. "Maybe another five hundred rounds to go and we're dry."