The Hungry (Book 2): The Wrath of God (18 page)

Sheriff Penelope J. Miller was royally pissed. The fiery impulse soon went beyond anger to outright destructive rage. If there had been any chairs around, she would have trashed them, along with any tables, windows, glassware, plates, or anything else breakable that she could have gotten her hands on. She also would have cursed a blue streak if she had had the opportunity; in English, Spanish, French, German, Russian, and she would have thrown in a couple of Native American insults that she had learned years before. She was a righteous, raging bitch on wheels—or would have been, if she could have been. Now was not the time, unfortunately.

The tantrum would have to wait because right at this moment Miller was bound, gagged with someone else's stinky underwear, and lying flat on a cold dirt floor. She was a prisoner in a partially lit cave in the middle of God-knows-where while her captors got ready to do God-knows-what to Miller and what was left of her friends. She could see the others, similarly trussed up nearby. With the exception of little Elizabeth, they all looked as mad as she was, and they were all mad at the same dipstick she was mad at—Sheriff Penny Miller. She shook her head sadly. Scratch, Sheppard, Lovell, and Rat glared over their own filthy gags as if daring her to get them out of the new mess she'd gotten them into by trusting Abraham. Elizabeth appeared to have dropped into shock.

Miller closed her eyes. She had to think and think fast.

When she'd stepped down the Winnebago's stairs, she'd gripped her weapon tightly and looked everywhere. The people were smiling warmly and the clearing seemed safe enough. There were no guns or other weapons visible, and only the handful of men, women, and children who came to stand around the Winnebago to greet Father Abraham and the rest of them. The sun was warm. Miller could hear a stream nearby. Everyone seemed well fed and comfortable. Truthfully, the people appeared complacent and that fact kind of put Miller off her guard. These people obviously posed no immediate threat to Miller and her crew. Even Rat could see that.

"My children, I have brought more lost souls into the fold," announced Father Abraham. "Bring food and drink, for they are grieving. They have suffered losses to their numbers, and they need our support in this darkest of hours."

Miller and Rat exchanged glances. Sheppard shrugged. After a long moment, Miller shrugged too, and holstered her pistol.

"We definitely could use some chow," Miller said. She walked closer to Father Abraham, "And we surely do appreciate your hospitality, but I think we explained that we're in kind of a hurry." Miller looked around at her crew. They exchanged looks and silently debated telling these poor people about the nuclear weapon that was set to go off at six o'clock. Finally, Miller shook her head. She'd hold onto that alarming information for a little longer.

Miller slowly relaxed as she looked around. She'd counted more than fifty people, with a few more moving shadows up in the rocks, possibly standing guard. With Rat, Lovell, Scratch, Sheppard, Elizabeth, herself, and Father Abraham already on board, even another twenty or so would be an impossible fit. Maybe these people would be all right where they were, if they remained in the caves, especially at the time the bomb was set to go off. There they would be protected from the shockwave, Miller reckoned. She would have to discuss all this with Rat once they had a private moment.

Abraham moved through his flock, ruffling the hair of the children and whispering in the ears of his ladies. The men shook his hand and stayed respectful. The old man was most definitely the big man on campus. Miller watched him, still not trusting the zealot. She was completely ready to cut Abraham loose, but she had a small philosophical problem with commandeering someone else's Winnebago to get only her crew back to safety. It would sit heavy on her conscience. Would this tribe of survivors be able to survive out here at all, much less without their vehicle? Maybe, maybe not. She really didn't want to find out.

"Hey, Sheriff?" A familiar voice. Miller turned around and was stunned to recognize a thin, brown-haired, sad-eyed woman named Vanessa Baker. Vanessa had been the owner of the Silver Dollar Café back in Flat Rock. She was frowning, wringing her hands as if nervous. Two other women in dresses were close behind, one standing just over her left shoulder.

"Vanessa? You're alive? What the hell are you doing here?"

"Father Abraham saved me," Vanessa said simply. "He saved all of us. Welcome to the Valley of the Shadow of Death."

Miller wasn't quite sure as to how she should respond to that one, so she just nodded and smiled a bit.

Vanessa sighed. Her faced was lined with worry. She smiled back. It was a thin, compressed bow of a smile, without much feeling behind it, but Miller figured that Vanessa had seen so much pain, suffering, and death in the last few weeks that true joy was far away and behind her.

"The Valley of Death, huh?" Scratch moved away from the Winnebago and headed closer. "I guess we should fear no evil, right?"

Miller looked at him, a mite surprised yet again.
Since when does he quote the Bible?

"Very true," said Abraham, clapping Scratch on the shoulder. "No evil shall find you here. Come join us, we shall eat."

Miller's stomach rumbled. She relented. "We can't stay but a few minutes, Abraham. But we thank you for the ride and the hospitality."

"One thing." Abraham cocked his head oddly. He looked up at Rat and Lovell, who were still carrying their shotguns, and Scratch who had his .30-06. He extended his hands as if preparing to receive. "This is a place of peace, my children. You shall not carry your weapons here."

Rat's head snapped around. Her reaction was so fast Miller thought she'd give herself a concussion. "If it's all the same to you," Rat said, "I think I'll just hang on to mine. There are a lot of undead sinners out there."

Miller nodded. "I tend to feel the same way, Abraham. No offense."

"Me, too," Scratch said. "But as far as I'm concerned, you can be just as offended as you want."

Father Abraham pondered and obviously thought better of arguing with his new friends. He dropped his hands. But Miller caught him eyeballing one of the men, a thick, bearded fellow in jeans and a work shirt, who nodded and walked away briskly.
Uh oh.
Rat feels it too. Better watch our step…

"You're in luck." Vanessa was tugging at Miller's elbow. "We actually have some decent food for you today."

"Really?" Miller found herself salivating at the thought of food.
Pavlov's Sheriff,
she chuckled to herself.
Damned zombie juice…

Vanessa pulled again. "Come with me, I'll show you folks where you can take a load off and grab a bite of lunch."

Miller said, "Scratch, Lovell, can you help Sheppard walk away from the Winnebago? If anyone needs something to eat, he does."

"Uh, sure." Scratch headed back over to the stairs, to where Lovell was waiting for him. Sheppard was still standing in the doorway. He seemed a bit wobbly but beginning to recover. Miller watched as the two men tried to figure out how to safely support Sheppard and carry their weapons at the same time. They looked clumsy, the stars of a silent comedy. The sun went behind some clouds and a chill passed over her. Miller rubbed her arms. She walked over to the men and frowned.

Miller went up the stairs. "Lovell, hand me your shotgun. Scratch you just leave your rifle for a minute or two. It'll be okay."

Lovell glanced at Rat, whose expression was even, giving no sign of what she was thinking. A hawk did a lazy circle over her shoulder, out past some tall cacti. The sound of the brook made Miller thirsty, and she thought she could smell something cooking. Her mouth watered.

Lovell said, "Rat?"

"Hand it over." Miller held out her hand for the shotgun. Rat did not object, at least not aloud. Lovell made up his mind, and surrendered the weapon. Then he and Scratch lifted Sheppard, who grunted from the pain. They helped him down the stairs. Miller shifted the weapons in her hands. She looked up to the top of the steps. She walked up to the doorway and peeked inside the Winnebago.

Elizabeth was huddled up in a ball in the corner next to the sofa. Now that Miller had been outside in the fresh air, she realized how badly the dusty vehicle reeked of their collective body odor. Shadows embraced the child. Sunlight flared dust motes that caressed the little girl's hair. Elizabeth had cried herself out and her pretty eyes had gone glassy.

"Let's go, sweetheart," said Miller, softly but with authority.

"No!" Elizabeth barked defiantly. She held tighter to her knees.

Miller held out her hand. "Don't worry. I won't let anything happen to you."

Elizabeth shrank back and glared straight ahead. Miller took her measure. She had her hands full of weapons loaded with live ammo and didn't know if all the safeties were on. A few seconds passed before Miller moved again. She reached down and attempted to pry one of Elizabeth's hands away from her dirty, scabbed knees.

"No!" cried Elizabeth. Miller pulled harder on her hand, but Elizabeth was having none of it. She slipped away. The weapons rattled around and pulled Miller off balance. Elizabeth sprang up and ran through the dark shadows, through the beaded curtain and into the forbidden back bedroom.

"Are you folks all right in there?" It was Abraham's voice. He was outside the Winnebago, a ways away.

"Shit," Miller whispered. She stared at the slowly moving curtains that danced like reeds in colored water. The old preacher would crap thumbtacks if he knew anyone was back there again. Miller wavered. She did not want to violate anyone's privacy. The last thing she needed was for Abraham to have yet another meltdown. But…

"Elizabeth?" Miller called softly. The little girl did not respond. Reluctantly, Miller stepped past the beaded curtain and into the Preacher's bedroom.

Miller stared. She immediately wished she hadn't followed. Little Elizabeth was nowhere in sight. The bedroom was an even bigger mess than the main compartment of the Winnebago. Spray-painted graffiti covered every inch of the walls. Miller caught the now familiar slogans
DEVINE WILL
,
GoD SHalL JUdgE ThEE
. She took one step forward. A floorboard creaked beneath her boot. The curtains were filthy and had a strange stench to them. She wiped her forehead and blinked her dry eyes. Upon closer inspection, she realized that the curtains were actually bloodstained scraps of clothing hung over the windows.

Miller licked her lips. Her stomach clenched. The horrors continued to reveal themselves. Bones lined the shelves around the bed. Miller's skin rippled and crawled. She tiptoed over to inspect the collection. As she'd feared, these were not animal bones—Abraham collected human bones. A femur, a few finger bones, and one large skull with an obvious gunshot wound in the cranium. Zombie remains, probably… creepy as hell nonetheless.

Miller whispered, "Elizabeth?"

The little girl did not respond.

"Elizabeth, we should get out of here right now."

Miller turned in a slow circle. The place was horrific, a serial killer's den. But the main attraction of the collection was a tall, thick jar. A jar filled with greenish-brown liquid and what was obviously a head. Miller felt stunned. It was a zombie head, identical to the ones she had seen back at the deserted lab in Crystal Palace. It suddenly moved, was alive. It snapped at her through the glass container, its white-clouded eyes blinking in the gooey slime.

Without thinking, Miller racked the shotgun. A live shell expelled onto the bed. It occurred to her that the big weapon may be almost out of ammunition. She did not fire. She bent over and carefully inserted the round back into the magazine. She turned to her left and saw Elizabeth, hiding on the far side of a filthy day bed littered with stained underwear and dirty magazines. The child was frozen and trembling.

"Elizabeth," Miller said quietly, "we have us a big problem that I need to fix. I've changed my mind, okay? For now, you stay right there."

Elizabeth said nothing. She hid her eyes, perhaps not wanting to see the disturbing decorations of the bedroom. Like all of them she'd already seen more than enough. Miller thought,
Why would anyone collect such things in a world already overrun by horror? What motivates this man?

Miller went through the beaded curtains, across the deserted Winnebago, and back to the door. She stayed in the shadows, close but not close enough to be seen though the screen. She forced herself to sound casual. "Hey, Rat? Could you come in here for a moment?"

Miller heard a muffled sound but no human voice responded. She felt her palms grow damp. She thought of leaving with the child and coming back alone, but when she checked the ignition she saw that Abraham had taken the keys. They were stranded.

"Rat?" Miller called again, trying not to let the panic spill over and enter her voice. "Scratch? Lovell?"

Muffled sounds again. Miller took a quick peek out the door.

Scratch, Rat, and Lovell were on their knees with pillowcase hoods over their faces. They had their hands tied at the wrists and they held them on their heads like prisoners of war. For his part, Sheppard sat up against a rock, with his hands on his head as well. His face was not covered, perhaps because his breathing remained labored. Miller knew she was seriously screwed. Abraham's people held a variety of weapons on all of her friends. They had all just been waiting for her to emerge.

"It's time to come out, my child," called Father Abraham. "Trust us, the party is just beginning."

"That's not how this is going to come down, Abraham."

"This is Divine Will, girl."

"You're some kind of a sick fuck. Has your flock seen your bedroom?"

"Don't make this any harder than it needs to be," Abraham called.