The Hungry (18 page)

Another hand tugged at him. Zombie or savior? Sheppard was too confused to ask. He felt himself being dragged down the hallway. Voices were shouting, feet slapping at the floor. He wiped the blood from his eyes just as the bulkhead door closed behind them. Sheppard looked around at the others. They'd all gotten away.

"Where's the Sheriff?" demanded the biker. He held one of the guard's rifles, and looked pissed off enough to use it on Sheppard. The other civilian and the two guardsmen stood behind him. The civilian had scored a handgun. The guardsmen seemed frozen with terror. For the moment, the biker seemed to be in charge.

"Exam Ten," Sheppard said, gasping.

"Let's move."

TWELVE

Examination Room Ten was located directly below Colonel Sanchez's office. Scratch refused to let them take the elevator in case they bumped into any armed guards. They ran the stairs. It took them nearly five minutes to reach that floor, their shoes and boots and panting echoing loudly all through the giant staircase. Whenever they peeked out into the building, the corridors were empty. They were moving too fast to discuss what was going on, although the two civilians kept exchanging worried looks. They didn't run into any other of the denizens of the base. Good news and bad news.

"Here it is," said Sheppard. He arrived at the doorway and bent over, retching and out of breath. Sheppard tried to stay away from the others, aware that he reeked of bodily waste. Darla's blood and brain matter was beginning to dry on his skin. He could only guess what kinds of pathogens might be entering his bloodstream. He could be as good as dead already if contaminated. He might even be forced to try one of the untested serums. But Sheppard couldn't discuss his fears. The others would just shoot him in the head and be done with it.

"Okay, Doc," said the biker. "Here's the way this is going to work. You're going to help us rescue the Sheriff and get us the ever-lovin' fuck out of here. If you don't cooperate, you'll be lucky if I
only
feed you to the zombies. Are we clear on this?" To punctuate the point, the biker waived the guard's rifle in the air.

"But…" Sheppard wanted to argue about his duty to the Army and to the United States of America, as well as point out their collective moral obligation to try to stop the zombie outbreak. He looked up, sweating and panting. The two Guardsmen were leaning against the wall, eyes downcast. No esprit de corps this time out.
Fuck it, then
.

The other civilian raised a sidearm lifted during the chaos. He sighted on Sheppard's nose. "Answer the man. Are we clear?"

Sheppard swallowed. He stared down the wicked black barrel of the gun. All of his objections dissolved. "Clear."

"Good," the biker said. "Now tell us what to do."

"Your sheriff is on the other side of these doors, but so are two heavily armed guards with orders to keep the sheriff right where she is."

"Under who's orders?" asked the biker.

Sheppard hesitated. "Well, mine."

The biker smiled like a long blade razor. "Cool. What's your name, Doc?"

"Sheppard. Karl Sheppard."

"Howdy. My handle's Scratch. This geek is the sheriff's ex-husband Terrill Lee. Tweedle Dum is Wells, and Tweedle Dee is Macumber. Introductions over. Now let's get our sheriff back." Sheppard thought for a moment. The men were wearing the clothes that they had worn into the base, rather than the jump suits provided after decontamination. A slip up to be sure, but under these circumstances…

Good,
thought Sheppard. "Right. Wait here."

Scratch raised the rifle menacingly. The men went flat against the wall. Terrill Lee and Scratch kept their weapons trained.

"Don't worry, gentlemen," Sheppard said. "If it's all going south, I want to get out of here just as badly as you do."

Scratch nodded. Sheppard turned to go through the doors.

"Hold up," said Terrill Lee.

"What's the matter?" Scratch released his breath.

"He looks like a fucking serial killer ready to hit the showers," said Terrill Lee, indicating the blood, shit and gore covering Sheppard.

Sheppard thought about that. "Actually, I have an idea. Back up a few yards. Wait right around the corner there, and don't come out or show yourselves until I call."

Terrill Lee shrugged. The men backed out of sight. Sheppard gathered himself. He waived his coded badge at the electronic door. It slid open silently. He went into the examination room.

Sheriff Miller lay on the metal table. She'd been strapped down tightly. She seemed to be unconscious. Or perhaps she was just playing possum.

"Get out now," Sheppard said. "Hurry!"

"Damn! What the fuck happened to you, Sergeant?" demanded one of the guards, a skinny private with cheeks like day-old pizza. "You look like forty miles of bad road."

"Fucking zombies are loose!" whispered Sheppard. "Keep your voices down. There are at least four of them that I know of. Get going and report to decontamination right away. They'll need reinforcements. I'll stay here with the prisoner."

The two privates stared.

"Move your ass, soldier!" ordered Sheppard. The duo ran out through the door and raced down the corridor outside, the one leading away from the Scratch, Terrill Lee and the others.

Sheppard waited outside. He counted long enough to allow for the men to reach and enter the nearest elevators. "Okay, come on out."

Scratch and the others jogged into view. A moment later, they followed Sheppard into the room. "We've maybe got eight to ten minutes."

Scratch and Terrill Lee immediately surrounded Sheriff Miller. They began loosening the straps that bound her to the examining table. Miller's eyes were open. She was alert and clearly surprised to see them.

"What took you so long?"

"Easy, darlin'…" Terrill Lee and Scratch spoke in unison again. They both froze and glared at one other, momentarily forgetting the task at hand.
Men…
Miller waited, almost as if savoring the moment. "Well, are you two going to untie me, or does the world have to stop for another dick measuring contest?"

They removed her restraints. Miller sat up, rubbing her ankles and wrists. "What's the plan?" She looked at each of them in turn.

Before Terrill Lee could respond, Scratch said, "Here it is. Doc Sheppard here is gonna escort us out of this shit pit, and then we're going to get as far away from here as we can."

"You trust him?" She hadn't forgotten their interview. Sheppard looked down and away, feeling ashamed again.

"My rifle does," said Scratch.

Sheppard looked up. He shrugged and forced a thin smile. "Shit happens. Situations change. You may find this hard to believe, Sheriff, but I have absolutely no desire to get eaten alive by a pack of zombies."

"Looks like you came to that awareness just a tad late," she said, studying his blood-soaked scrubs. "Mind telling me what happened?"

"Don't even ask," said Sheppard. He stripped off his bloody shirt and fouled trousers. Miller thought he had a nice body. He cleaned himself quickly, pulled a fresh set of scrubs from the metal cabinet in the corner. He changed into them. "Thank God."

Wells and Macumber had finally snapped out of their comas. They appeared in the doorway, stood behind Sheppard. "What now?" asked Wells. He stared at Miller, just waiting for orders.

"What now?" Miller repeated. "Now we leave!" She put her legs down on the floor, tested her balance. "I'm okay. Somebody get me a gun."

"Hold up," said Sheppard. "You'll have to change out of that jump suit, Sheriff."

"What's the hell is wrong with it?"

"Those jump suits are for subjects and prisoners. They have tracers built into the fabric and buttons. You wouldn't get within a hundred feet of the front door wearing one of those outfits. A drone would blow us all into beef broth."

"What the fuck am I supposed to wear then, Doc? Hell, just give me a set of those scrubs."

Sheppard hunted around in the metal cabinet. "What about this?" He hauled out the stained wedding dress.

"I am not getting back into that fucking rag!"

"Sheriff," said Sheppard soothingly, "we don't have time to argue. In about six minutes those privates are going to realize I sent them on a wild goose chase. They'll know something's wrong and alert security that I'm down here alone. The brass will realize the prisoners have escaped and start sealing off the levels. So we either leave right now or it's going to be too late." He handed her the filthy, torn dress. "Take off the damned jumpsuit and put this back on."

"But…"

"About
face,
" ordered Sheppard. Everyone turned, even Scratch, although perhaps not quite as crisply as the others.

"Fuck a duck!" said Miller. She stripped off the jump suit. A minute later, she had the dress back on and was tying her boots. "Okay, let's go." She stood up. She held out her hand. Reluctantly, Terrill Lee handed over his sidearm.

"We need us some more weapons," he said, sullenly.

Sheppard led the way to the door. They moved quickly, packed tightly together. As they entered yet another corridor, the intruder alarm finally sounded. A new sound erupted. It was sort of a high-pitched, repetitive whine. The noise was deafening.

"What the fuck set that off?" demanded Scratch.

"We did," said Sheppard, "I was expecting that to happen. They will think someone is breaking in from the outside, not the other way around. That could work to our advantage." He turned to Scratch. "No time to argue, man. You need to hand over that rifle."

"Fuck you," said Scratch.

"You're a civilian. If we get caught with you holding that thing, we're all dead. Give it to Tweedle Dum if you like."

Wells smiled crookedly. Miller could tell he didn't like being called Tweedle Dum, but did enjoy the idea of finally getting one over on Scratch. Scratch reluctantly handed Wells the rifle. Miller sighed and handed her pistol to Wells. Good thinking. Sheppard was smart. It would look like they were prisoners again.

"Now, here's the deal. Shut up and let me do all the talking. Open your mouth without my say-so and you'll get us all killed. Clear?"

"Right," said Terrill Lee.

"Roger," said Macumber.

"Understood," said Wells.

"Got it," said Miller.

"Fuck you and the horse you rode in on," grumbled Scratch. Nevertheless, he went along.

"Just keep walking," said Sheppard. He led the way down the empty corridor and up another long stairway. They emerged on a catwalk above the humvees. Sanchez's large office window was twenty yards away on the same level. Sanchez himself was nowhere to be seen. Sheppard led the way down a steep staircase to one of the vehicles. They could hear footsteps in the stairwells now, and some shouting, but the soldiers were all moving up as they moved down. Going the wrong way.

"Stay here and shut up. Corporal," Sheppard said to Wells. "If anyone approaches, you tell them you are watching the prisoners and waiting for Sergeant Sheppard to return. They'll probably leave you alone. After all, there's a zombie outbreak down below."

"Probably the man says," Scratch muttered. "Probably."

But Miller, Terrill Lee, Scratch, Macumber and Wells did as they were told. Sheppard vanished through a sliding door in the corridor wall. Some boots clattered by overhead, men jogging with weapons, but no one appeared to challenge them. They exchanged looks. Miller licked her lips and swallowed dryly. She was so damned hungry and thirsty. Miller straightened the wedding dress a bit. She leaned closer to Scratch.

"Are you sure we can trust this Sheppard?"

"Nope, but we got no choice."

"I trust him," said Wells.

Terrill Lee said nothing.

Macumber peered into one of the Hummers. "No keys here," he reported.

"Hey," said Terrill Lee, pointing just beyond the vehicle.

Miller looked. A four-man unit of soldiers was heading directly towards them. "Lance," she said to Wells, "you're up."

The four soldiers came around the corner and stopped short. They were sweaty and scared. The alarm kept shrieking mindlessly. The soldiers had the look of men who'd been running in circles looking for someone or something to shoot. They were frazzled and pissed off and past caring who or why.

"Who the fuck are you people? What are you doing here?" Their leader was a big blonde corporal, sunburned and sullen.

Wells stepped forward with the rifle cradled in his arms. "We're under orders of Sergeant Sheppard. These are my prisoners. He told us to stay put. He should be back at any moment."

"Right. And who the fuck is this Sergeant Sheppard?"

Wells and Miller exchanged glances.

"He's…" began Miller.

"You better come with us," snapped the corporal. The soldiers brought their weapons into the ready position. They finally had someone to kill. The kid spoke into his chest mic. "Blue Leader, this is Blue Six…"

"Go Blue Six…"

Someone tapped Miller on the arm. It was Scratch. He held her wrist, urging caution. Scratch hooked his thumb over his shoulder. Miller turned to look. She blinked and held back, because now a bunch of other soldiers, likely a platoon or more, were running their way.

"You know anything about a group of civilians loose on the base?" asked the corporal.

"Stand by," came the static-filled reply.

Scratch and Miller pondered making a move, but Wells and Terrill Lee stared them out of it. They were already outmanned and outgunned. Suicide was not a viable option. At least this wasn't a horde of the living dead. Well, not yet.

The new platoon arrived. Miller fought back a smile. Sheppard stood at the front of the group. He was now in full battle regalia. He'd somehow found a uniform and taken charge of a scattered unit. Without missing a beat, Sheppard said, "Corporal, get your fat ass out of here. Get downstairs now. There's a zombie outbreak going on. Leave us your sidearms."

"
That's
Sergeant Sheppard," Miller said, with a wry smile.

The worried soldiers exchanged glances. Discipline held. They handed over their pistols and ammo belts. The corporal looked exceedingly pissed. Each man clung a bit more erotically to his paltry rifle. Sheppard handed the new weapons to Miller, Terrill Lee and Scratch. He pointed to the staircase. "Now, you clowns go downstairs and make yourselves useful."