The Hungry (Book 3): At the End of the World Read Online Free Page A

out,” Scratch said, mostly to Terrill Lee and Sheppard. “We need her help if this trip is going to pay off.”
    Terrill Lee steered them to a stop right outside the cabin. The tires crunched to a halt. Terrill Lee rolled the window down. Snow—perhaps the first snow of the season—began to fall in a light powder. Up close, in the glare of their headlights, Miller noted that the yard was a bit messy, the main building a bit dirty. A Harley Electra Glide sat rusting in front of an out-building. Miller made a note of that. Any vehicle that ran could come in handy these days.
    “Careful, boys,” Miller said. The men knew what she meant. Things had been boring for a while, but something about the situation reminded them all that Hell was waiting around the corner. Any corner.
    “Okay, but this ain’t a special forces night drop,” Scratch said. “We’re all friends here. She’s just an old lady. We’ll take it slow and easy here, and everyone be sure and put a big smile on your face.”
    Miller mumbled, “If it will get me a hot bath and a bottle of shampoo…”
    Scratch waited a few beats as if to give the woman inside time to ponder the situation. The steadily growing darkness made them all uncomfortable. Everyone practiced smiling. Scratch looked at each of them, studying their shadowy features, eventually settling on Terrill Lee, who now wore a big, goofy grin, one more suitable for a John Wayne Gacy clown than someone trying to charm a scared old lady. Scratch frowned.
    “Terrill Lee?”
    “What?”
    “Ease up on that cartoon smile there, big guy,” Scratch said.
    “What’s wrong?”
    “You look kind of like we all ought to start humming theme from Jaws.”
    Terrill Lee relaxed his face and hid his teeth. He looked almost human again. “Guess I’m a little wound up. This better?”
    “That’s good as gold,” said Scratch. “Keep it right there at twenty percent or so.”
    Scratch opened his door, slowly and carefully. Miller, Terrill Lee, and Sheppard did the same. They all got out. Terrill Lee left the lights on so they could see. The headlights and floodlights turned everything white. Night was crawling rapidly over the forest floor, and their own long, fat shadows seemed to be rushing to swallow them up.
    They walked toward the cottage, across the pine needles and crunchy frost and up onto the paved driveway. Miller saw the woman Greta’s face reappear in the window next to the front door. She seemed weathered, very nervous. She squinted blindly in their direction for a long moment before she vanished from sight for a second time. Seconds later Miller heard the quiet but unmistakable sound of a bolt-action rifle being cycled.
    “Who’s there?” Her voice came from the other side of the thick front door. “Don’t come any closer or I’ll blow your ass to hamburger.”
    “Hey, Greta,” Scratch called. “It’s me.” And then Scratch did something that must have been incredibly difficult in front of companions, and especially in front of Penny Miller. He used his real name.
    “Jimmy Bowen.”
    Miller kept her face blank. Terrill Lee immediately suppressed a snicker. Sheppard snorted and studied the frosty ground, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Scratch reddened. He shot the other men a warning look, but otherwise stayed quiet.
    An owl hooted to the north. Miller studied Scratch with a new sense of respect. For as long as she had known the biker, he had been willing to beat the living shit out of anyone who dared to call him by anything but his gang name. And now here he was setting himself up to get teased to death by his best friends.
    “Jimmy Bowen? You don’t sound like that punk-assed kid. Who are you really?”
    Scratch turned to look at Miller, and seemed as confused as she felt.
    “I know it’s been a few years, Greta, but it’s really me. Jim Bowen.”
    To Miller’s surprise, Greta flung the door open wide. She stood still, her body backlit in the doorway,