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

Miller's heart skips a bit. She's frozen. It's old Luther Grabowski, owner of the Gas-N-Sip on the edge of town, her town. His kindly old features are contorted and bruised. A big flap of skin hangs down off his forehead like a stained strip of tan fabric. Luther reaches out for her. He's grunting with that nasty lust of the undead.
Uh uh huh uh…

"No!"

Penny Miller sat up in bed, drenched in sweat. Her friend Scratch stared down at her, his right wrist still clutched in her damp hands. Scratch seemed more puzzled than scared. He wore a clean t-shirt with a rock band logo and a tight pair of jeans. He braced himself against the hotel wall, and did his best not to fall ass over teakettle down onto her. Behind him, the blazing Vegas sun plowed through the parted hotel curtains and flowed over Miller like a living organism. Her head hurt. She winced.

"Shit fire," Scratch said. "Let go of me."

He tugged. Miller had his wrist and she wasn't letting go.

"You were dreaming again, Penny."

"I was dreaming," Miller repeated, half believing it. "Dreaming."

"Who was it this time?"

She stared at Scratch for a long moment. She regained her bearings. Finally, she said, "Luther Grabowski."

Scratch carefully extracted his wrist from Miller's death grip. The biker rubbed it with a dramatic flair. A wry smile crossed his lined face. "Luther? That old fuck from the gas station back in Flat Rock? The one who wouldn't leave his property? Makes sense. I'd make book he's a zom by now. Anyone batshit crazy enough to want to stay in the Occupied Zone ain't gonna be too long for this world."

Miller swung her legs off the side of the bed. She got to her feet, and rubbed her temples. Miller was thirsty and hungry. "What the fuck are you doing in my room, Scratch? I ever catch you trying to cop a feel while I'm sleeping, and I really will plant your sorry ass out in the rock garden."

Scratch smiled. "Don't you worry, Penny," he said, almost gently. "When I do finally cop a feel, you'll be wide awake."

"And standing over your dead body," she snapped. Miller was still disoriented by the dream. She didn't exactly enjoy the idea of Scratch or any of the other men visiting her room uninvited. She stared at him, her expression cold. Scratch just grinned. Miller glanced at her reflection and realized that the intended intimidating effect was somewhat mitigated by her messy sweats and the damp red hair sticking up in every direction.
Dang, I look like someone shoved a cattle prod up my butt while I was napping.
Miller fussed with her hair.

"What's going on?"

Scratch cleared his throat. "It's your turn in the whiskey barrel. Doc Rubenstein is waiting for you."

Miller yawned. "What time is it?" She frowned and looked out the window. The lifeless Las Vegas strip was spread out below her, McCarran airport a mile or two away to the east. The view was breathtaking and bleak at the same time. There wasn't a single car moving up or down the strip, and the only aircraft at the airport were military. She could see three Air Force C-17 cargo planes taxiing around to the far end of the runway, followed by a pair of F-35 escorts. More evacuations were going on, Miller guessed. Poor old Las Vegas was almost a zombie, too—dead as a Kardashian New Year's resolution come February—but just unwilling to admit it.

Miller rubbed her eyes. Scratch walked away to get a bottle of water from the case on the table. Miller had dreamed for years about one day staying in a penthouse overlooking Las Vegas. Under any other circumstances, four thousand square feet of luxury at the Excelsior Towers would have more than done the trick. Not after the onslaught of the zombie apocalypse. Staying cooped up in this glorified decontamination tank for the last twenty-five days hadn't been at all what she'd had in mind.

Scratch drank half the plastic bottle, his throat working greedily. He had a perpetually dark and rather sexy George Clooney-type stubble. "It's about three o'clock, far as I know. Come on, Penny, the Dome Doc is waiting."

"Let him wait," Miller said, without much conviction. Without thinking, she began to change out of her sweaty t-shirt. She stopped. Spoke abruptly. "Unless you want me to tear your eyes out and feed them to you like Jujubes, I suggest you get your horny ass the hell out of my room."

"Whatever," said Scratch. His eyes dropped. He turned to leave.

"See if you can rustle me up me something to eat, would you?" she asked, her tone a tad softer. "I'm starved."

"What else is new?" mumbled Scratch. He left without looking back. Miller realized she'd hurt his feelings. After all, he'd worn clean clothing for a change and had washed his long hair. Now that she was awake she caught the faint scent of a man's cologne. Scratch had tried to gussy himself up for her.
Damn you're a bad assed pretty boy…

Miller waited until she heard the door click. She stripped out of her damp clothes. They'd all taken to wearing t-shirts, sweats, and jeans found in one of the deserted stores located downstairs, rather than the green hospital scrubs that their Army hosts had assigned them. Miller tied on a pair of running shoes—not that there was anywhere to run—and brushed her long red hair. She knew Dr. Rubenstein would be a mite pissed at her for making him wait, but that suited her just fine. She never had much room in her universe for head shrinks, and this one hadn't changed her opinion, not one damn bit.

Besides, what the fuck was she supposed to do, read another book? With nothing on cable, and only military news on TV, she had nothing better to do than read all the crap available in the gift store downstairs, mostly romance novels. Images of buff shirtless men and buxom incompetent women filled her mind. Then she would look up at the bozos she had been forced to live with lately. Oh, her ex-husband, Terrill Lee, was okay to have around if you were a sick farm animal, but not much good to anyone else. Karl Sheppard, the army scientist? He was a good-looking sucker, but he was also gayer than San Francisco on Pride Day. Scratch was a criminal and a recovering biker, who until today hadn't taken a bath since the decontamination shower over three weeks before.

They'd been through a lot together, and saved each other's asses more than a few times, but as men they left a lot to be desired. Reality gave lie to all the bullshit those romances tried to jam into women's brains, and left her sexually frustrated to boot. Not for the first time, Miller wondered if the zombie virus she'd picked up a ways back had left her overly hungry in more ways than one. She sure had hormones and food on her mind almost all the time, day or night.

Miller finished brushing a knot out of her hair. She tied it up into a regulation bun, and headed out into the main room of the penthouse. Terrill Lee and Sheppard sat at the dining table, yet another game of Gin Rummy before them. They had found some cards on the first day of their seclusion here at the top of the luxury hotel, and hadn't tired of playing since. The endless stock of booze probably helped. Miller guessed that after all the shit that came down, anything was better than wading hip-deep through a swamp full of zombie guts. Still, she was climbing the walls from sheer boredom.

"Hey, Penny," said Terrill Lee, without looking up.

"Good morning, gents," Miller called as she made her way through the main room.

"Good afternoon, Sheriff," said Sheppard. "You're sleeping late. Bad dreams again? Are you feeling all right? Can I get you anything?"

Miller stopped where she was. Hands up and palms out, said, "I'm fine, thanks. Just go back to your game."

"No trouble at all," Sheppard said, standing.

Miller held her ground. "Damn it, Sheppard, don't you get all up in my stuff. I am in no mood to be mothered right now."

Sheppard sank back into his seat. He had that sad, disappointed look on his handsome face. He'd found an antidote and rescued her from the zombie virus. Unfortunately the injection didn't fully destroy the zombie virus in her system, just slowed the effects of the genes that had been inserted into her cells. Instead of super strength, agility, speed, and hearing, the antidote just left her hungry and bitchy, with no way of knowing if Miller would become a zombie herself upon her death. Not a fun prospect. Sheppard carried a lot of guilt on his shoulders.

"Sheppard, let it go."

He picked up his cards and stared down. His cheeks reddened. "All right, then. Just let me know if you need anything."

"Believe me," she said, softening again.
Men.
"If I need anything, you'll be the very first to know."

Miller saw some granola bars on a wooden table. She grabbed one and gobbled it down while walking. She continued on through the penthouse to the TV room, went in, and closed the door behind her.

Dr. Arthur Rubenstein sat comfortably in one of the easy chairs facing the TV. Another chair—the one Miller was supposed to occupy—faced away from the screen. There hadn't been a Goddamned thing but an hour or two a day of military news and crap propaganda on air since they'd gotten here. The cable had been shut down during the evacuation of Las Vegas. The rotund, balding Dr. Rubenstein still insisted that the screen presented a distraction.

"Hello, Penny," said Dr. Rubenstein, a bit too cheerfully.

"Artie," said Miller.

Rubenstein made a note on his pad. He did so every time she called him by his first name. In private, every once in a while, Miller pondered what doing that said about her personality. Ultimately, she figured it meant that she was already tired of dealing with his psychobabble. Besides, since she couldn't remember giving him permission to call her Penny instead of Sheriff Miller, why not return the lack of respect?

"How are we feeling today?"

"Artie," Miller sighed. "How many times do I have to explain this to you? I am fine.
We
are two different people, and I couldn't give a shit less how
you
are feeling. Now, are you actually asking how
I
am feeling today, or are you just being stubborn as a pack mule staring down at a straight drop?"

Rubenstein scribbled another note. "I assume you've had another bad night?" he ventured. "Unpleasant dreams again?"

Miller looked away. "If I say yes, will you let us out of this gilded cage? Come on, Artie, you can't keep us here forever. Under Nevada law, you have seventy-two hours to charge us with something, or you have to let us go."

Dr. Rubenstein looked up over his notepad. He held her eyes for a long moment.
More psychological bullshit,
Miller thought. But she wasn't about to look away. If this was a contest of wills, this asshole doctor had a lot to learn about her. Sheriff Penny Miller didn't back down. After an eternity—Miller's eyes actually stung from being open so long—Rubenstein broke it off first. He looked up at the ceiling, feigning boredom. "Now, now, Penny, you know that it's not that simple. You aren't prisoners here. You are merely in protective custody."

Miller practically jumped out of her chair. "Protection from what? Them zombies? If you had any sense at all, you'd be protecting the zombies from
us
. Believe this Doc, my little crew of misfits knows how to handle a bunch of slobbering undead fucks. We were doing just fine on our own when the Army finally arrived to rescue itself. You want a demonstration?" She reached for a vase, and held it as a shot put, ready to hurl into Rubenstein's smug face.

The doctor went slightly pale but kept it together. He ignored her and made more notes. Finally, Miller began to feel a little silly. She replaced the vase on the table. After another long moment, she also resumed her seat.

"Thank you, Penny," said Rubenstein.

Her pulse jumped again. "For what? Not smashing your face in? If you want to thank me, you'd let us walk the hell out of here."

Before Rubenstein could respond, his cell phone rang—
must be a satellite model
, thought Miller. She started to ask if that was why it was still working. The doctor held up a finger for silence, and answered the phone.

"Yes, sir?"

Long pause. Miller strained to hear the other end of the conversation, but her preternatural hearing had gone the way of the dodo. The outrageous superpowers had vanished after Sheppard had given her an anti-zombie-virus shot back at his secret Army base. Hell, that had been almost a month ago now. Zip. Nada. Static. All she could hear now was the
waa waa waa,
like the grown-ups in some old Charlie Brown cartoon. Sometimes she missed being hopped up on zombie steroids. Sometimes, though not really.