CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Damn you fucking people! I can’t believe it took you less than thirty minutes to completely contaminate my bunker. I’ve been secure since Jack Kennedy got his last blowjob, and I’ve been doing
just fine
all that time. I’ve got everything I need right down here: Got me lots of guns, loads of ammunition, a lifetime supply of vitamin C crystals, and as much wild boar and deer as I can hunt whenever I choose to go out.”
Scratch said, “So you’re always down here all by yourself?”
“Only one other person in the world knew I was down here, and old Greta kept my secret for near fifty years. She was as trustworthy as the day is long, and the nights—well, I’m gonna miss them too, you know what I mean? The old girl could party.”
“You had the life,” Sheppard said dryly.
“Damn straight. And you know what I’ve got more than anything? Solitude! As much as I want. Or wanted. Dang, I should have blown you all away when I saw you in the wine cellar. That’ll teach me to have a soft heart.” Gunter seemed profoundly disappointed in himself for failing to kill them all. He hadn’t lived up to his own fantasies.
“Back up,” said Scratch, also stopping the procession to the back door. “What was that about guns and ammo?”
“I… I didn’t say anything about guns and ammo.”
“Gunter, you’re about as good a liar as you are a people person,” Miller observed. She prodded him with the barrel of the Stoner. “Hand them over.”
“You’re out of your goddamned minds if you think I’m going to arm you.”
Scratch closed the distance. He drew his .45 Springfield and placed it firmly against the side of Gunter’s head. “Our friend Terrill Lee gave
us
orders to survive, jackass. He didn’t mention a thing about
you
.”
“You fucking people are crazy!”
“
We’re
crazy?” asked Scratch. “We haven’t been living in a cave for fifty years, so don’t talk to us about crazy. So, if you want to live to take another dose of vitamin C and have a ringside seat to the zombie apocalypse, you’ll hand over those weapons
right… fucking… now!
” To further make his point, Scratch pulled the hammer back on the .45 and pressed it farther into the old man’s wrinkled flesh.
Gunter set his jaw and squeezed his eyes tight. “Screw you, pissant!”
Michelle’s family—what was left of them—was staring back at Scratch from further down the long tunnel. He turned to catch the eyes of Crosby, Miller, and Sheppard, who watched him silently.
After an eternity, Miller made up her mind. “Stand down, Scratch. He’s right. We’re not going to kill him. We’re not like the assholes upstairs.”
Scratch deflated. The old man had called his bluff and he had lost. He averted his eyes from the others.
Miller thought for a moment. “In a few minutes, we’re going to feed him to Terrill Lee.”
Gunter went pale.
“He’s my ex-husband, Gunter. A good friend. And he is going to be hungry pretty damned soon, if he isn’t already.” Miller swallowed hard. “So I guess the least we can do before we leave him to die is provide the boy with a good last meal.”
Scratch watched. Miller nudged the gun out of the way. She took Gunter by the arm and forced him to his feet. She turned him back toward the bedroom. “This place can’t be that big, so we’re bound to find the back door on our own sooner or later.” She pushed Gunter with the machine gun.
“Dinnertime, Terrill Lee,” Scratch called.
“You won’t do it,” Gunter whimpered.
“All we need do is shove you inside and lock the door. Terrill Lee will do the rest. And yes, you can take this much to the bank. I’m going to let him punch your ticket and get a bit of raw pleasure before he starves to death in there. It was nice meeting you, Gunter.”
“No!”
Miller pushed hard, propelling him forward.
“You got kids with you,” the old man wailed. “Is this the lesson you want to teach them?”
Crosby answered this time. “Sure. You ought to know that survival is a pretty good skill to learn these days.”
Miller looked at Crosby. She began to wonder if he really had gone off the deep end.
“All right,” said Gunter, “you goddamned homicidal maniacs.”
Miller stepped back. She breathed a silent sigh of relief that she didn’t have to go through with the threat. Her stomach was churning. She watched as Gunter led the others down the second arm of the T to a hidden panel behind a false wall. They untied his hands. Gunter sighed. He dialed the combination, and put his hand on the handle.
“Wait!” Scratch put the gun to Gunter’s head again. “That better not be booby-trapped.”
“Give it a rest, hippie,” Gunter said boldly. “I know you haven’t got the guts.”
“If it’s you or us, I choose us.”
Despite the pistol, Gunter turned to him. “Relax, it isn’t booby-trapped.”
The old soldier opened the door and turned on the light. Scratch grunted with surprise. To a group desperate for supplies, the room was flat amazing. It was like the entrance to some kind of paranoid Valhalla. There were enough weapons to arm a pissed off platoon of Marines. They saw guns, racks and racks of them. They saw dozens of boxes of ammunition. In the center of the room was a large table, saw horse, and chair, and what appeared to be a serious gun cleaning operation.
“Okay, everyone arm up!” Miller pulled Gunter out of the room. She kept him covered while the others went shopping. Without being asked, Sheppard handed Miller several more magazines for the Stoner, along with a messenger bag to hold them. He also replaced her .357 Smith.
Miller watched Jimmy as he evaluated the choices of weapons. She watched as he ran his fingers across each of the machine guns, almost caressing them. He didn’t seem excited by the prospect of choosing a weapon. Miller caught a glimpse of his face. It was wet, though his expression never changed.
Scratch stepped up to him, and gently put another Stoner in his hands. They locked eyes for just an instant. Surprisingly, Scratch was the one to look away. Jimmy stared at the machine gun like it was someone else’s. He didn’t seem to know what to do with it. Scratch gestured for him to follow, and they filled a messenger bag with more magazines. They spoke in soft tones. Miller could guess it was about Michelle, but she couldn’t be sure.
While she watched Scratch and his son, the others also chose weapons. Miller made a note that Lynn and Brandy seemed to know which end of the guns to hold. Sheppard and Crosby immediately went to their weapons of choice and began arming up.
Miller kept an eye on Lex, who stood next to Brandy, clinging to her side. Either he didn’t know what was going on, or he was in shock. Miller guessed the latter. He had a glassy look in his eyes, and he was quiet and still, not antsy like usual. Poor kid.
Miller began to plan their escape, step by step, though she didn’t yet know the route. They’d have to make old man Gunter take point all the way. If he double-crossed them, he’d go first.
Scratch picked up an M60. He wrapped two belts of red-tipped tracer ammunition around his body like bandoliers. Miller thought he did a decent imitation of a young Sylvester Stallone playing Rambo.
Crosby stepped close to Miller. “Sheriff,” said Crosby, just loud enough for Sheppard to hear. “May I talk to you two privately?” he asked, including Sheppard.
Miller signaled for Scratch to watch Gunter, and she stepped away from the others.
Crosby didn’t waste time. “I’ve got a problem.”
“What’s that?” asked Miller. She glanced at Sheppard, who rolled his eyes, just enough to be noticed.
“I was there with you at the store when Greta was killed, same as you and Jim. Same as Michelle.”
“So?”
Crosby’s tone became low, urgent. “Michelle and I both got splattered when you shot Greta back in the general store. Michelle got sick and turned into one of them. I’m scared, Sheriff. The only place she could have possibly picked up the virus was at the store when Greta died. How do we know that I didn’t get it too?”
Miller stared at Sheppard. She wanted to say,
that’s a really good question.
She couldn’t find a way to do that without sounding as accusatory as she felt.
Sheppard finally collected himself. He said, “Are you feeling any symptoms?”
“I’m not sneezing, if that’s what you mean.”
“No, I meant, are you feeling hungry, excitable, racing thoughts, unable to sit or stand still, fever, pain, aggression, accelerated reflexes, anything like that?”
“Maybe a little hungry,” Crosby offered, putting his hand on his belly. “Is that serious?”
“We’re all hungry, Crosby. It’s dinner time.” Miller spoke reassuringly to Crosby. “I wouldn’t panic if you have no other symptoms.”
“Sheriff, Michelle was sneezing the whole time, on you and me and everyone else. Karl, earlier you said that the zombie virus can be transmitted through bodily fluids, not just through blood but saliva too.”
“True.”
Miller stood straighter, shoulders squarely facing Crosby. “Listen to me. We can’t afford to panic. You have to stay calm. You’re fine.”
“You don’t know that, do you?”
Before Miller could answer, Sheppard replied, “No, I suppose we don’t.” His own face darkened.
Miller darkened too. What the hell was wrong with Sheppard? She presumed that Sheppard was feeling guilty over Michelle and Terrill Lee.
Perhaps he should,
she thought. And then, without meaning to, she let the thought slip through her defenses.
Perhaps he should feel guilty about all of it. They’re dead because he missed the signs. Because of his poor judgment in starting this whole damn mess.
Miller shook that anger away. She had finally learned not to think of Sheppard as the cause of all their troubles, and she didn’t want to start thinking that way again. And the last thing she needed was Crosby to go completely off the deep end.
“Gentlemen, let’s stick to what we know. Until Constable Crosby here actually gets sick, we’re going to operate as if he’s fine.” She turned her back on Crosby and Sheppard and looked at the others. She raised her voice. “All right, is everyone ready to get the hell out of here?”
Scratch spoke for the rest of them. “Ready to rock, Penny.”
Miller glanced back at Sheppard and Crosby. They were conferring quietly. When Sheppard noticed Miller looking at him, he shushed Crosby and came to something like attention. Miller didn’t spend the time to wonder what that was about. She turned to Gunter. “All right, let’s go. Lead the hell on, MacDuff.”
Gunter rolled his eyes. He knew when he was beaten.
He led.