The Hungry (Book 3): At the End of the World (7 page)

The small office was warm and smelled of furniture polish. Miller liked it. The morning sunlight danced with dust motes as it poured through the east window to warm their skin as they talked. Their horses stood outside the door, drinking icy water from a genuine horse trough. They might have been living in the 1800s. Constable Crosby poured Miller and Scratch each a second cup of coffee, and sat down at his desk with his own. His own white mug said THE BOSS.

Miller studied the room. A standard locked gun rack stood against the wood-paneled wall. A bulletin board behind the desk was covered with flyers and reminder notes. An old rotary phone sat on the desk, perhaps just for show. The office was smaller than Miller’s had been back in Flat Rock, but quite as old-fashioned, with two barred jail cells squatting a few feet away on the other side of a partition wall with a glassed-in door. Martin and his two friends sat in their cells, listening closely through the open door.

“That’s one hell of a story,” Crosby said. “Talk about an adventure. You two have got to be the luckiest people on the planet.”

“Or the unluckiest,” Miller said. “That depends on your point of view.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Scratch said, half into his mug.

Miller drank her coffee. It was good, the first real coffee she’d had in weeks. From the look on his face, Scratch was in heaven, too. Miller let the hot caffeinated goodness flow into her. She took a deep breath. “Believe me, Constable, most adventures aren’t fun while you’re having them.”

“I suppose that’s right,” said Crosby. “So you two were right there when it started. It’s really outstanding that you’ve survived this long, considering all the shit you’ve been through.” He took a long pull on his coffee. “I guess all those zombies can get you all mixed up. It sure as hell explains how a Sheriff and a Hell’s Angel could…”

“Blood Rider,” corrected Scratch. “Those Hell’s Assholes get all the good publicity, but they ain’t so much.”

Miller shot Scratch a warning look. “Let’s stay on topic, shall we?”

Crosby shifted uncomfortably in his high-backed chair. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean any offense.” The leather squeaked a complaint. “I’m just a little disappointed you’re not my backup from FoCo.”

“FoCo?” asked Miller.

“He means Fort Collins,” Scratch said. “It’s a big town a ways north of here.” He glanced over at Crosby, who was staring at him. “I hail from Colorado, too.”

Crosby continued to stare at him.

“What?” Scratch asked after a long and uncomfortable silence.

Crosby leaned forward, his eyes crawling over Scratch almost like he was going to make a pass at him. “I’ll be damned, I do know you, don’t I?”

“Kind of.” Scratch sighed and titled his head to the side. “I used to kick your ass way back in seventh grade, Carter.”

“Jim? Jim Bowen?” Crosby stood up and let out a whoop of a laugh. He clapped his hands once. It sounded like a shot and Miller jumped. Crosby put his palms down on the desk and leaned forward. The two men locked eyes. Miller wondered idly if she was in for yet another dick measuring contest. She reckoned so.

“I thought I recognized you!” Crosby came out from behind the desk. He approached Scratch with his arms open wide. Scratch tensed, but it was pretty clear that Crosby wasn’t gearing up to hit him. Crosby caught him in a big, powerful bear hug. Miller watched as Crosby nearly lifted Scratch off the ground. The look of surprise and discomfort on Scratch’s face made Miller wish she’d had a camera. The idea that Scratch had ever been a small town boy seemed odd. Knowing that others remembered him that way was just plain funny as hell.

Crosby put Scratch back down. He ignored Miller and sat on the edge of the desk. Crosby had a smile on his face, clearly happy to see his old friend. “How the hell have you been, Jim? Well, I guess I know how you’ve been, what with all these zombies and all. But damn, it’s good to see you!”

Scratch had an odd expression on his face, a grimace that made it clear that he would rather be anywhere than reminiscing with Crosby and especially in front of Miller. She couldn’t help but enjoy his discomfort.

Crosby settled down a bit. “Have you got any idea who you’ve been hanging around with, Sheriff?”

“No, I don’t know much about his past,” Miller said. She turned to face Scratch. “I bet you two have some interesting stories to tell me.”

“There ain’t that much to it,” said Scratch. He glanced at the door like a man about to bolt for freedom.

“Not much to tell? Are you shitting me?” Crosby stood up from the edge of desk and bowed to Scratch as if he were a deity. “He was the
man!
Ol’ Jim Bowen is the guy who introduced me to Metallica. Not just the music, mind you, but the entire band! Shit, I still got that pair of drumsticks that Lars Ulrich gave me.” Crosby laughed. His mind seemed to drift back for a long moment.

“Don’t say it.” Scratch begged with clenched hands.

“I bet you still got Roxanna Shirazi’s underwear, don’t you?” Scratch wilted in the chair. His face turned red. Crosby doubled over, laughing and clapping.

“Roxanna Shirazi?” Miller asked, wide-eyed, her tone dripping sarcasm.

“I don’t know what he’s talking about,” said Scratch, but his expression made it clear that he knew
exactly
what Crosby was talking about. Miller stared at him, her head tilted to the side, bright eyes amused. She milked the moment like a heavy cow in the morning.

“You didn’t tell her?” Crosby asked, with genuine surprise on his face. “Jimmy was our hero from sixth grade through high school. He was Harrison’s pot connection in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s, so all the starlets who came through, and a shitload of the paying customers from the lodge, including a few movie stars, a couple of senators, and most of the Broncos, were his new best friends whenever they stayed here. It was supposed to be all hush-hush who was registered at the lodge, but Jimmy’s dad was the handyman there, and his mom was the head of housekeeping, so they couldn’t exactly kick him out.” Crosby stopped to catch his breath. “Tell her about the time Scott Wieland came up for the weekend, Jim.”

“It’s nice to see you, too, Carter,” said Scratch, uncomfortably. “How ‘bout we catch up on what you’ve been doing all this time.”

Miller cleared her throat to interrupt. Part of her wanted to let Scratch squirm a little longer, but they had serious business to attend to, and then they’d have the whole damned winter to learn about Scratch’s teenage antics. She glanced through the bars at the three men Crosby had locked up. They glared back. The one called Martin was seething.

“Constable?”

“Call me Carter. Look, let me be straight with you, I don’t much buy this zombie shit, but hey, any friend of Jim’s…”

“Okay, then, Carter. I hate to interrupt the reunion, but there are a couple of things we need to take care of while we’re in the village, beginning with us pressing charges against those three.” Miller indicated the three men in the jail cell.

“I suppose you’re right,” said Crosby. His broad smile slowly faded. “I want to apologize for that situation. It reflects badly on my village. It isn’t every day that people are taken prisoner at gunpoint in Hope Springs.”

“I should hope not.”

“But these aren’t ordinary times, either. Whatever is actually going on down in the flatlands, it’s weird. We all know that.”

Miller stared.
Whatever is actually going on? We just told you.

“The fact is, Sheriff, there’s not much we can do about them other than keep ‘em locked up.” Carter hooked a thumb at the three sullen men sitting in the jail cell. “We’re an unincorporated village, and the Larimer County Sheriff has jurisdiction here. We don’t have a court here, and until I get some backup from FoCo, or anywhere for that matter, we’re going to have to figure out something else to do with them.”

“You have no other moves?”

Carter pondered. “I suppose we could contact their commander.”

Miller blinked. “Their
commander?
”

“Yeah, see, we got us some survivalists up in the back woods outside of Hope Springs. Those three idiots are bona fide militia—the Stars and Stripes Brigade, they call themselves. They came into the area after the World Trade Center came down, and they mostly keep to themselves, but in the last couple of months since Nevada they’ve ‘stepped up operations,’ as they would phrase it. Well, obviously I don’t have to tell you what’s been happening for the last couple of months. We don’t know what to believe.”

“I guess you don’t.” Scratch was sensing something he didn’t like.

“They were betting for years that the world is coming to an end,” Carter said, “and those bombs got ‘em convinced that they were right all along. I can’t say that I blame them for that. Whatever these zombies really turn out to be when the full truth is known, I think maybe victims of nuclear weapons and fallout, we suddenly got riots down below and a complete lack of military response. Look at all the shit that you had to go through to get here. Anyway, so if it weren’t for peckerheads like those three, I’d be hard-pressed to explain why you wouldn’t want to be one of the Stars and Stripes, too.”

“Should we be worried about the others in their group harassing us up at the lodge?” Miller’s mind was working through this new problem. She didn’t like where her thoughts were leading her
. An armed militia up here for a long, cold winter?
“We already have enough problems as it is.”

“I wouldn’t be worried,” Carter said soothingly. “They’re mostly harmless. But explain again how you happen to be staying up at Harrison. It isn’t like Greta is the kind of woman who would take you in out of the goodness of her heart. And if I recall correctly, she wasn’t exactly your biggest fan either, Jim.”

Miller cut off Scratch’s response. “I figure Greta probably thought she was being generous. That’s how she rationalized it anyway. She took all our money and car and left us the deed to the lodge.”

“No shit?”

“No shit. We have an actual signed deed.”

“Well, congratulations, I guess,” Carter said. He shrugged. “It’s a nice place.”

Miller finished her coffee. She studied the prisoners, then Carter. “So while you’re dealing with Larry, Moe, and Curly in there, perhaps you could send out a BOLO on our minivan and our money?”

“Just out of curiosity, how much did she light out with?”

“About six-hundred thousand, give or take,” said Scratch, grudgingly joining in the new conversation.

“Six-hundred thousand? You got one hell of a bargain for Harrison. That place has got to be worth ten million.”

“In better times, maybe,” Scratch said.

“Well, frankly I don’t give a pup’s pecker either way,” said Miller, “we have the very real problem of being completely stuck. Until we find a way to make some new money, we’ll have a big incentive to stay put at the lodge, at least for the winter.”

Carter nodded. “Guess you do.”

“Carter, we’re going to need some supplies. We were headed into the village to barter some things from the lodge—you know, wine, a couple of extra rifles, that sort of thing. We need your help. We can hunt some, but we’ll likely have a powerful need to eat this winter, if you know what I mean.”

The constable was quiet and thoughtful for a moment. “I still can’t believe all this is really happening. Bombs and some kind of plague going on and such total chaos.”

“Believe us,” Miller said. “It’s real.”

Scratch said, “Carter, the zombies will be up here soon. Help us.”

“Sorry, but like I said, I don’t buy
all
of this story,” Crosby snorted. “Well, at least not the zombie part. Give me a break.”

Scratch and Miller stared back at him. For a time nobody spoke or moved. Eventually Carter broke eye contact like a whore in church. “Well, Sheriff, there’s probably only one place in the village where you can get any supplies right now—at least until the next shipment comes up from the flatlands.”

Scratch grimaced and shook his head. Seeing that, Carter stopped talking. Miller frowned. She also knew any re-supply was not very likely. As usual, she and Scratch were on the same page. They knew what was right at their heels, coming fast as a blood-and-guts water ride. If the Constable couldn’t handle the idea of a zombie plague, there would be hell to pay. He’d learn soon enough. They all would.

“Like we said, we need supplies.”

“You should go try Kent’s General Store.” Carter pointed across the street, past the horses, to a large group of people outside of a battered storefront. His jaw dropped. The usual small crowd had grown large and its members had already begun pushing and shoving, all of them gone electric with fear.

“Damnation.”

“What?”

“Looks like you’d best hurry, Penny. If that were a bank, I’d say it had all the earmarks of having a run going on.”

Miller headed out the door, followed closely by Scratch and Crosby.