CHAPTER TWELVE
6:07am – 11 hours 53 minutes remaining
"We've got a powerful need to eat, so I think that's our next order of business. What have you got in the way of food, Father Abraham?" asked Miller. She stepped back onboard the Winnebago.
Abraham scratched his beard and chuckled, the demented Santa. "My own supplies are meager, my children." Abraham sighed apologetically. "I'm afraid we may just have to fast today."
Miller and Rat exchanged glances. "Father Abraham," said Rat, "back at the base you assured us you had plenty of food. What's changed since then?"
"I said nothing of the sort," Abraham snapped. "I am not a chef, I am here to save your soul!" He spread his hands wide and looked up at the ceiling of the Winnebago as if it offered a portal to the ethers. "Forgive us. The flesh is weak and corrupt, and cannot be trusted." He turned back to them. "Prayer feeds the soul; eating only prolongs the suffering of the body."
"Then what's with all the medical supplies?" asked Terrill Lee, dryly. "Doesn't that prolong the suffering of the body, too?"
Father Abraham stared at Terrill Lee as if he had just noticed that someone else was there. A beatific smile spread across his face. He looked at the other members of their tiny group with a countenance filled with faux joy and benevolence. "What I meant to say is this. Folks, shall we go find breakfast?"
"But you just said…" Terrill Lee stepped forward. He was righteously pissed off now. Miller put out her hand, stopping him in his boot prints. The Winnebago rocked a bit as everyone settled back in.
Miller turned to face Abraham. She returned his smile. "Why sure. Breakfast sounds great. What did you have in mind?"
"I know a place, right here in this very town." Without another word, Abraham turned around again. He sat down heavily in the driver's seat. He started the engine and accelerated without warning, throwing them off balance again. He raced away from the jail, the huge Winnebago crunching loudly over the skeletons of the dead. Miller and Rat had to scramble to find something to hold onto to keep from being thrown to the floor. Miller eventually made her way back up to the passenger seat. She secured her seatbelt out of fear for her own safety. She glanced out the dusty window. The streets were packed with trash, wrecked cars, and rotting bodies. Crows and vultures gorged on dried out flesh. Same old view.
Abraham headed up Second Street to Clark Avenue, the main drag through Flat Rock. Miller remembered marching in a small Memorial Day parade right after being elected Sheriff. Abraham steered right down the middle of the street. He ran over and splattered a misshapen hunk of road kill. Miller closed her eyes, rubbed her temples. The air was thick with the stench of unwashed bodies and the dead outside.
Abraham gunned the Winnebago, which had now developed a subtle rattle. That worried Miller greatly.
Are we low on oil?
Abraham took two lefts and just as Miller figured out where they were headed he pulled up in front of the Silver Dollar Café. Abraham parked at the curb next to a huge heap of wind-blown plastic trash bags, several broken open by carrion birds or perhaps feral animals.
The sun beat down outside. Abraham shut off the engine. "Good fortune, nice parking spot near my favorite breakfast joint. They don't seem to be very busy today."
"Huh," said Scratch. "Cowboy, I think the café is closed."
"Closed?" Abraham said. "Why, nonsense." He stood and went to the Winnebago's door. "I'll go get us a table." He moved outside, down the steps and onto the sidewalk. Abraham looked both ways like a kid crossing the street when parents are watching. He opened the entrance, walked into the dark, empty restaurant and disappeared from sight.
"The fuck was that?" Psycho said. "He's nucking futs."
Terrill Lee and Scratch exchanged a
look who's talking
glance.
"Appears that way," said Miller. "So much for him being harmless," Miller said. She glared pointedly at Scratch and Terrill Lee. "I thought you clowns would be better judges of character by now."
Scratch put up his hands in defense. Terrill Lee just looked at the floor. His cheeks reddened.
"There's a grocery store across the street." Miller shook herself back into action. "Maybe we can find some canned goods and bottled water."
Rat nodded. "My team will take care of that."
Terrill Lee raised his hand again. "I thought we weren't supposed to split up the party."
Miller hesitated, then made up her mind. "Take the shotguns," Miller said. She didn't want another argument about who was in charge of what. Or any more losses, either. Rat, Lovell, and Psycho stood up and left, efficiently and with no wasted motion.
Miller said, "Scratch, let's go find Father Harmless."
"What about me?" asked Terrill Lee.
"You should stay here with Sheppard," Miller said. "I want him able bodied two hours ago. Besides, someone has to be here to guard the Winnebago."
"All right." Terrill Lee was clearly disappointed.
Penny turned to go. Scratch stood up and followed Miller outside. The morning sunshine was white hot and bright in their eyes, running quicksilver up and down the length of Clark Avenue. The sky was a shade of blue that almost matched Miller's eyes, at least back when she'd had enough sleep. The heat felt good on her skin. It wasn't quite warm enough to get rid of her Sheriff's jacket, but it would be soon. Until then, Miller was happy to have part of her uniform on.
And at least I'm not stuck in a fucking wedding dress
. The thought of her last trip through Flat Rock made her shiver. She'd been a prisoner, and ended up trapped in that stinking white rag for several days. Miller shook off the memory. She handed Scratch the .30-06 rifle, and rested her hand on the .357 at her hip.
The door to the Silver Dollar was open, the interior dark and dusty. No lighting or power. The electrical grid in this part of Nevada had been shut down as part of the quarantine. The Feds had done the same with natural gas and water. They entered the coffee shop. Some light crept in through broken windows and the torn curtains cast patterned shadows on the dusty floor. Miller glanced at the wall. Just like back at the base, someone had spray-painted:
The WrATh of GoD!
Judging by what she'd seen in Abraham's Winnebago, he'd had something to do with it. Miller wondered if his followers were imaginary. Hell, it certainly looked that way.
Miller looked around. It was a ghost town café. The restaurant brought back memories of happier times, cigarette smoke and laughter, the scent of fresh coffee and the sizzle of bacon frying in the kitchen. Now it was just silence everywhere. Outside a crow cawed as if mocking her nostalgia. The place had six booths covered with red plastic and most had been patched with duct tape in spots. There were also ten freestanding tables. The chipped linoleum counter had seven stools, and stood right in front of the kitchen window, with doors leading back on either side of the cluttered, yellowing surface. Ants had gotten into the sugar jar and flies buzzed in darkened corners. Fat and happy flies.
Miller looked down. Father Abraham's tracks could be seen clearly in the light gray dust. They led back to the kitchen through the half-open door on the right side of the long customer counter—boot prints, and the first in many a day.
Miller and Scratch exchanged glances. Miller didn't care for this at all. The hair on her neck stood out.
"Father Abraham?" Miller loosened the strap that secured her revolver in its holster, wrapped her fingers around the grip.
No sense in taking it out if there's nothing wrong,
she thought.
On the other hand, feels like the start of a campfire ghost story in here…
Outside, the crow cawed again and then left with a clattering flutter.
"Hello?"
Father Abraham did not respond to her call. Nevertheless, Miller listened intently and thought she could hear him moving around.
Is the old fart talking to someone in the back?
Talking to who? Or to what?
Miller motioned for Scratch to take the left side of the counter. He quietly checked to make sure that the rifle he carried was loaded. Scratch smiled softly, so Miller figured he was ready. She moved to the left as he slid to the right. A floorboard creaked quietly under her right shoe. Miller paused then moved again. Other than that one squeak, neither one of them made a sound.
"Father Abraham?" Miller approached the doorway. Scratch kept watch, covering her.
Miller un-holstered her pistol, gripped it tightly in both hands, aimed down at the floor. Scratch was in a good position, and Miller figured no one needed to know he was there in the room. Scratch was her backup in case this thing went south in a hurry. She'd be doing the talking for now.
"Father Abraham, answer me. Say you're still breathing, or I'm going to have to come in there locked and loaded."
Something in the kitchen clattered to the ground. Something that sounded metallic, a pie tin or a plate maybe, went rolling noisily on the floor. Miller jerked back. Scratch frowned. Then they heard someone very clearly, speaking in a small, high voice. "No!"
A loud crash followed.
"Go," Miller whispered. Scratch moved low and fast to the other side. Miller swallowed dryly. She charged toward the door to the kitchen. It swung wildly her way. Something or someone was coming out of the door at the same time, and almost knocked Miller on her ass. Whoever it was passed her low and to the side, moving way too quickly to be one of the undead, but Miller wanted to be sure. She reached out to the small, dirty form, and snagged its arm and swung it around to one of the booths. She raised her pistol. The little face was animated, wide-eyed. Alive.
A child?
"Hold on there!" Miller shouted, struggling to control the kid. "It's all right. We're the good guys!"
In response, the child bit her on the arm. Bit down hard.
"Sonofabitch!" Miller let go.
The child ran at full speed out the front door and around the corner. Little footsteps on the cement fading away. In a heartbeat, the kid was out of sight.
"You okay?" Scratch spoke from across the room. His rifle was pointed at the wall just above Miller's head.
"I'm fine," Miller said. "Find Abraham, I'll handle this." She headed out of the cafe and after the child.
The bright sunlight was a shock after the cool, dank darkness of the café. A light wind tickled her hair. Miller was outside just in time to see the kid entering a storefront a few doors down. Penny Miller didn't think. She followed at a dead run.
Seconds behind, Miller paused. Common sense made her pull up for a moment. She reached out. The door to the storefront that the child had entered was closed but unlocked. Miller listened at the door. Charging on inside, she knew perfectly well, was a good way to get her ass killed. On the other hand, the kid must be feeling alone and absolutely terrified. Hell, who wasn't these days?
"This is Sheriff Miller." She was speaking through the half-open door into the shadows. "I'm coming in. I'm not going to hurt you."
Miller paused to let that message sink in. She moved the door ahead until it was wide open. And then she went inside, letting the door close behind her. The interior of the store was dark of course, but enough light came in through the glass door to show Miller which store she'd entered.
It was Rosette's Bridal Shop, where she'd bought her dress years before. That fact alone was almost enough to make her stop and turn around.
"Damn."
Rows of white gowns on shapely dummies,
just like in real life,
Miller thought bitterly and grimaced. She had a duty to protect the citizens of Flat Rock, even ones who weren't that excited to be protected, and especially terrified kids. She thanked God that Terrill Lee and Scratch weren't there to give her any shit about the wedding dresses. Sighing, Miller raised her .357 and took another step inside.
"Hey," Miller said in a conversational tone. "I know you're probably scared, kid. A lot of really bad things have happened around here recently. But you're safe now." She scanned the dusty carpet for the child's footprints, but caught nothing specific. She blinked, waiting a moment for her eyes to get used to the darkness. The gloom closed in but her pupils adjusted. Miller ventured farther inside.
"I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to make sure you're okay."
Miller thought she could hear rustling in the back of the store, but she couldn't be certain. Crows cawed outside again and this time their odd laughter disturbed her. Was this a trap of some kind? No way to be certain it wasn't…
"You know, hiding from me doesn't help. I don't know who else might be in here with us, maybe one or two of the bad guys." Miller pushed aside a rack of white wedding dresses, peeked behind them. "If you hide, I have to keep my gun out in case I have to protect us. I'll make you a deal, though. If you let me know that you're all right, I'll put my gun away. I promise."
Silence. The mannequins seemed to stare back at her, their faces blank, some headless and missing arms—rows of plastic zombies waiting in the shadows. Upstairs the wind moved through a cracked window and tugged at something in the attic. The old building issued a faint moan.
She cursed under her breath. She stepped around another rack of wedding dresses and looked behind some hanging tuxedos. She heard nothing. Just the crows outside and the faint breeze. She had no choice but to keep the chatter up. This was a kid. She didn't want to shoot a kid by accident.
"Why don't you tell me your name?" Silence. "My name's Penny. Penny Miller. I'm Sheriff of Flat Rock. Maybe we've met. Are you from around here too?" Nothing. "I know a lot of the kids in Flat Rock. I just visited the elementary school a few weeks before… " she trailed off. "Before all the bad stuff happened. Were you there that day? I'll bet you were. So you know what sheriffs do, right? We protect the good guys and punish the bad guys. We keep the streets safe for kids like you."