The Hungry (Book 3): At the End of the World (2 page)

“I swear to God, Terrill Lee,” Scratch growled, “if you whistle
Bingo
one more time, I will stop this pile of junk, yank your country ass out of the minivan, punch your ticket, and throw you off this fucking mountain.”

Sheriff Penny Miller leaned forward into her seatbelt. She brushed her red hair aside, cocked her head, and searched Scratch’s craggy face for the slightest trace of humor. “Cut that out, Terrill Lee,” she said, finally. “I do believe the man is serious.”

Cowed, her ex-husband Terrill Lee stared steadfastly out of the cracked windshield at the looming mountain peaks of Colorado. Sgt. Karl Sheppard, sitting next to Miller on the bench seat, suppressed a wry grin. Miller realized that he was probably thinking the same thing as Scratch. Over the last several weeks on the run, Terrill Lee’s nervous habits had begun to irritate all of them. Terrill Lee was a lousy traveling companion. He told and re-told the same old jokes and ghost stories, and crackled his knuckles, and whined about needing to pee. Humming and whistling
Bingo
had been the straw that broke the biker’s back. Poor Scratch couldn’t take any more.

Miller could tolerate a lot of things, zombie hordes and corrupt politicians among them, but she also had to admit she was fed up with the collective male body odor permeating the minivan. She opened the window to let a little fresh air in, but not much cold. It was enough. She longed for a hot bath, or even a quick shower just to get the grime out of her hair and wash her pits and nether regions. She would have happily forgone that pleasure for herself if she could have at least shoved the three cowboys into a body of water with a bar of scented soap. She considered whispering that sentiment to Sheppard, but decided to keep it to herself. He might have taken it a bit too personally.

The sun popped in and out of the clouds like a kid playing peek-a-boo. They drove on, steadily climbing, twirling around the curling black ribbon of deserted mountain highway. Tall pine trees shot up around them like spikes pointing straight into the beautiful blue skies, a forest proud and healthy and wonderfully immune to the zombie virus currently ravaging the country. Miller never looked back over her shoulder. None of them did.

Miller watched Scratch. The biker’s sexy, perpetual three-day stubble had now grown into a full-blown beard. His long hair now lay around his shoulders in near-dreadlock-like ropes. If wherever the hell they were going was still civilized, Miller decided that handsome Scratch was first in line for a bath. He looked like the law-breaking ne’er-do-well he used to be, not the reliable man he’d turned into. Miller wrinkled her nose. She could smell Scratch from where she sat, not the good man scent but the sour kind. That was a smell she’d never wanted to get used to.

Miller accepted that she had a thing for Scratch. Miller had pretty much made up her mind that when things became a little less frantic and desperate, she would take their first opportunity to get “naked and weird” with him, as Sheppard would have put it. If they’d had any semblance of privacy since they left their friends, Rat and Lovell, back in Salt Lake City, she’d happily have backed him up against one of the pine trees and screwed his brains silly, body odor notwithstanding. But with the roadblocks, food and gas shortages, bribe-taking highway patrol officers, sleeping night after night in the minivan, and the occasional zombie sighting, she and Scratch had never been able to connect the dots—or anything else, for that matter. It was all they could do to stay alive and keep moving. Scratch had once been her prisoner, back in Flat Rock, Nevada. Now he was her best friend.

Miller and the three men had been running for a long time now, working their way north and east. They’d stayed to themselves when possible, all the while listening to the frantic rumors spreading rapidly through the sparsely populated area. They’d heard wild talk of accidents involving nuclear weapons, a terrorist attack, and even an alien invasion. Occasionally they also heard a version of the truth. Underground radio had it right, as did word of mouth. Folks claimed that some military experiment had gone terribly wrong, and as a result spawned a wicked virus and a horde of ravenous zombies. They also said that the government had bombed the area in a desperate attempt to control the spread of the disease. And that Miller’s home state of Nevada had virtually ceased to exist.

All of that was true.

Miller still wasn’t too sure about Scratch’s plan. He had them driving halfway across the Rocky Mountains to some isolated mountain village, a place it would take months, if not years, for the zombies to reach. That had sounded like a decent idea a couple of weeks back when he had first proposed it. Terrill Lee and Sheppard had jumped on the idea. Miller still worried that it had more wrinkles than a Rolling Stones tour. This shadowy, twisting mountain road—and Terrill Lee’s driving—now
really
made her think twice. Even if this remote village were to remain zombie free, where would they all get their food, their drinking water? Hell, even a touch of electricity would be a welcome change of pace. Still, Scratch had seemed confident, and unless the authorities were complete morons, the townspeople probably had emergency arrangements handy. At least Scratch promised that the hunting would be decent. They’d get by somehow. They always had.

Not wanting to risk Scratch’s wrath again, Terrill Lee turned on the radio. Only two FM channels had been available since the bombs went off. One played pop tunes of the 1950s and ‘60s, and the other offered a constant stream of government propaganda, total crap rather than any actual news. The brass probably wanted to avoid triggering a mass panic. It was a little late for that. Cautiously, Terrill Lee selected some music but turned it up just enough to be heard, not loud enough to be annoying.

“How far is this place, anyway?” Terrill Lee asked. He had begun by using that line sparingly, but Miller had been counting the occurrences for the last two hours or so. The frequency was definitely increasing.
Are we there yet?

Scratch shot Terrill Lee a dark look. He didn’t snap the way Miller would have expected. Scratch seemed to be getting it together again. Miller figured the pressure of saving them with this risky stunt was starting to weigh heavily. Over their weeks together—months, really—since what felt like a hundred years ago, back when he’d been her prisoner, Scratch’s bad-ass persona had gradually given way to something else; a fervent desire to be perceived as a hero, at least by one Ms. Penny Miller. This trip was his big opportunity to come through for the group. No one else had a better idea anyway, but that didn’t seem to factor into Scratch’s thinking. He was now The Man. It was all on his nicely muscled shoulders.

“I just told you, Terrill Lee,” Scratch said. “Look, it is maybe forty miles from that last junction. If this piece-of-shit clunker you bought had a working odometer, you’d be able to see how far we have left to go to get there, instead of pestering the rest of us.”

Terrill Lee took his eyes off the winding road. He risked a quick look at Scratch. “Are we really going to have this conversation again? It was this car or we hiked up the mountain. I’m sorry I couldn’t get you that Porsche you’ve been mooning over.”

Scratch almost took the bait. He glanced at Miller and managed to hold on to his composure. He grumbled to himself, “I just figured fifty-thousand dollars would at least buy us a working odometer.”

“Inflation.” Terrill Lee went back to driving.

The road turned rough. Rocky ground attacked their wheels. The vehicle bounced and groaned. The tension in the car mounted. Wisely, Karl Sheppard pretended to sleep. Miller studied the towering trees. Terrill Lee drove on, winding up the worn road. Meanwhile, Scratch stared out the dusty front window. He stiffened, perhaps spotting something familiar. And then he laughed out loud.

“There!” Scratch shouted triumphantly. “That’s it.”

Terrill Lee slowed the dented minivan. Miller saw a metal sign, hanging slightly sideways, that announced
Hope Springs, Colorado, population 473
. A black arrow indicated that the village lay to the right.

Miller noted that there were no “Strangers Keep Out!” signs, like the ones they had seen in Utah and parts of western Colorado. These people weren’t openly hostile yet. That alone gave her a flicker of hope that they were choosing the right place.

Terrill Lee turned the wheel sharply. They headed further up into the mountain heights. The trees on either side of the road seemed to stand guard like giant sentries in bright green uniforms. Huge rocks pressed lower and spread wider, but not enough to block their way. The road was just wide enough for a semi to get through if it wore a girdle, so it was possible that they still had decent supplies up here in the boonies. If the village wasn’t already in a panic, it might be possible for them to get a home-cooked meal. Miller thought it would be nice to eat something other than food bars and things they’d had to kill and roast themselves.

They drove on, and the world down below began to seem very far away. Pleased but cautious, the group in the minivan exchanged uneasy glances. Things felt safer up high. On the other hand, considering the shit storm they’d seen down at the foot of the mountain, it was also possible for them to end up someone else’s next main course. Folks were panicking and supplies were almost nonexistent down in the flatlands. Rumor had it people who weren’t even dead yet were starting to eat other people here and there—which hit a little close to home for the four of them. They’d had a cannibal experience at the foot of the Ruby Mountains in Nevada with one Father Abraham and his followers, back before Nevada had ceased to exist.

Only a little light filtered down through the trees as they finally entered the village of Hope Springs. The forest painted the buildings in shadow as the sun began to set in the western sky. They drove slowly and did not stop. Most of the windows were closed and shuttered. Things looked semi-deserted and thus a tad creepy. Even if Miller accounted for the isolation of the place, and the tiny population, the village seemed deserted. The main drag through the village was clean and wide, with little shops and larger businesses on either side of the street. Some of them had been boarded up, but that could have been caused by anything from the lousy economy to the coming winter season. She had no reason to believe it was because of the zombie plague.
Yeah, you just keep kidding yourself…

Terrill Lee said what they were all thinking. “Where are the people?”

“The street lights are still on,” Scratch said. “Somebody’s got to be around. They’ve all probably just gone home for the night.”

Miller frowned. “Are you sure about that?”

Scratch shrugged, but not easily. This was a crapshoot for him, and he clearly needed it to pay off. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

“Is that where we’re going?” Sheppard pointed.

“Where?”

Miller turned in her seat and looked out the window. She spotted a complex of large buildings right next to a network of ski lifts heading up the mountain. It was a hardwood-planked, Swiss style ski resort and first class all the way. Miller relaxed. Scratch had gotten it right. A place like that should have food, supplies, and probably some people to talk to other than these three cowboys she’d been cooped up with for the last several weeks. Hell, maybe even a Jacuzzi tub. Miller’s eyes roamed the resort, and her body relaxed a bit. From where she was, rolling through the middle of the village, the danged place also looked defensible. They’d be safe and secure.

“Wonderful,” Miller said.

“That’s not it,” Scratch said, with a chuckle in his voice. “That old place burned up inside years ago. It’s just a fancy shell. I’m surprised that the outside is still standing.”

“Where are we going, then?” Miller asked.

Scratch pointed at a fork in the road ahead. The one to the left had a dilapidated sign for the
Rocky Point Ski Resort
.
So that had to be it,
Miller thought. Hell, the right-hand fork wasn’t even labeled.

“Terrill Lee, take the right,” Scratch said, “the one with no marker. We’ll be where we’re going in a few more minutes.”

Miller tensed up again.
Wait a second
,
so we’re going to the worst possible alternative?
This did not bode well, but she didn’t say anything. She’d just wait and see. Miller didn’t want Scratch to feel shot down. He had her best interests at heart.

Once again, they drove on. They began to climb higher into the mountains. The road was packed with tall pines on both sides, crowding close to the dirt road. The road was dark and Terrill Lee turned on the lights. The smell of the trees was particularly strong here. Compared to the Nevada desert Miller had grown used to, the location offered a lovely potpourri of fragrances. For a moment, she wondered what it must be like to bring a dog up here for a long run. It would spend its whole day here joyously sniffing the air. After days packed in with unwashed men, she would too. Miller cracked the window a little more and breathed it all in. It was the nicest perfume she’d ever inhaled. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

“Bingo.” Terrill Lee broke into Miller’s thoughts and focused her attention on what was appearing up ahead, out in front of the car.

Scratch growled a warning to Terrill Lee not to start singing. Miller was momentarily worried he’d pummel Terrill Lee to death right there for just that reference to the damned song, but Scratch actually began to chuckle instead.

The light died rapidly. Their headlights illuminated the road, which became paved again. A hulking shape emerged from the gloom. Through the windshield, a couple of outdoor lights illuminated what appeared to be another good-sized building up ahead. Dark-stained wood framed the large picture windows of what appeared to be a three-story hunting lodge of some kind. It was far more compact than the burned-out ski resort, and very well designed. This was a place that could serve as a fortress. If Miller had any doubts of where they were headed, they evaporated right then and there. Scratch had done himself proud.