Free The Hungry by Steve Hockensmith, Joe McKinney, Harry Shannon, Steven Booth Page B

shotgun slowly, carefully so as not to set off any of the shooters. She sighted Scratch along the barrel. "Nothing I can't handle," she replied. "So you tell your men to drop their weapons."
    Ragnarok said, "Is that the lady sheriff that threw your ass in jail, Scratch?"
    Scratch's face darkened. "Yeah, that's her."
    "Where's Needles?"
    Without taking his eyes off of Miller, Scratch said, "Miller's piece of shit deputy blew Needles' head off, so I returned the favor. Didn't I, Sheriff?" Scratch patted Miller's gun belt, which was still around his waist. He had her 9mm.
    "Don't be too proud of yourself, Scratch," said Miller. She continued to train her shotgun on him. "You're just a scumbag. If it weren't for the zombies, you'd still be locked in that cell looking at twenty to life."
    Scratch set his jaw. "That's tough talk from a bitch pig with about fifty guns pointed at her head."
    "I don't know," said Miller, "I only count about forty. I reckon we took out at least ten of your smelly friends on the way up here. Dang, if that was any indication of how they ride and shoot I'd figure we're safer on our own."
    "You may have a point there."
    Someone moved and Miller flinched. Scratch turned. A nervous brunette woman a few feet to his left tried to back away from the scene.
    "Darla," Scratch snapped, "you stay put."
    The woman stopped moving.
    Miller felt her stomach clench with fear. She kept her face rigid and a smile frozen in place. Don't let them see you sweat…
    Scratch took his eyes off of Miller. He searched the faces of the gang, carefully counting heads. Finally, he turned to Ragnarok. "Jesus, Rag, where the hell is everyone else?"
    Ragnarok, who until now had appeared confident and moderately badassed, suddenly shrank a tad in stature. He had trouble looking up. In fact, he seemed childlike. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.
    Scratch shook his head. "Looks like you did one hell of a job taking care of the family while I was gone, little brother." Before Ragnarok could answer, Scratch drew the police-issue 9mm from its holster. He aimed it at Rag. "Now, let me get this straight. Are you telling me that you let a little bitch in a wedding dress and a pasty redneck fuck like that take out ten of us?"
    "Upon reflection," interjected Miller, "I do believe the turd who did a pizza-face header makes that eleven."
    "Hey, Scratch," cried Ragnarok, eyes wide and his voice thin with fright. "It wasn't like what you think."
    "That so? What was it like?"
    Rag swallowed. "They ran over Top Notch. We couldn't let them get away with that, could we?"
    "I see. People were trying to escape the zombies. They ran over one low level douchebag, and you felt a moral imperative to avenge him?"
    Rag seemed bewildered. Miller fought down a smile. The bikers around them had lowered their weapons, happy to watch the show.
    "That wasn't my fault," Rag sputtered. "You gotta believe me."
    "Oh, I do believe. I believe that you're a worthless pile of shit." With that, Scratch aimed and fired.
    Everyone jumped. Ragnarok went over backwards, his bike falling on top of him with a low clatter. The other bikers froze. Rag finally twitched. A dark stain pooled around him.
    "You sombitch," cried Ragnarok, his voice a mixture of terror and relief. "You went and shot my ride!"
    Now Miller could see a large hole in the bright blue gas tank right next to Ragnarok's leg. Gasoline was leaking out, soaking his blue jeans and filthy boots. Scratch had deliberately missed.
    Scratch swung his leg over the seat of his bike. He took four long strides. He stood over Ragnarok, drew a zippo from a pocket, and flicked it open. A quiet yellow flame danced above the wick. The pool of gasoline waited, quivered as if begging for the kiss of the fire.
    "No! Don't do it," squealed Ragnarok. Watching, Miller almost felt sorry for the poor bastard. He was being completely humiliated in front of the others. Scratch was re-asserting control over his gang, making his statement