The Hungry Read Online Free PDF

Wells. I think we're staying put."
    They locked up. She turned the lights on outside to give them better vision. Peering out through the window, Miller didn't like what she saw. The army of creatures approached relentlessly from all sides, groaning with a terrible hunger. They fired through windows and doors as best they could. Soon Miller wished she had put in earplugs when she'd had the chance. The steady gunfire hurt like hell.
    "Aim for the head," called Scratch. "It's the only thing that works."
    "I am aiming for their heads, smartass," shouted Wells.
    They fired and fired. Meanwhile, Needles sat handcuffed to a chair at Wells' desk in the lobby, the receiver stuck between his ear and his shoulder. He dialed furiously. Scratch had gone back into his cell for security. He was visibly shaking. His eyes were wide and white.
    "They're getting closer," Wells hollered. "This keeps up, these motherfuckers might be yanking our zippers down pretty soon." The bodies of several of the seemingly endless stream of undead were piled in a rough semicircle around his position at the barred back window. Wells paused for a moment to reload.
    "Shitfire!" Scratch jumped back as a rotting, three-fingered hand appeared at the barred window, grasping at his head. "Holy damned Jesus Christ on a jet ski!" He stumbled backward off his cot, tripped on the toilet and banged his already bandaged head on the cinderblock walls of the small cell. "Ow!"
    "Shut up," said Miller. She peered though the smoke in Scratch's general direction. "Bob, how are you holding up?"
    Wells fired the shotgun again. Steel balls ripped the head off another zombie. A wide cloud of blood, brains and skull resulted. The zombie, a little girl in a puffy white dress, went over backwards, tumbling over other bodies. A moment later, an old man began clambering over the rapidly growing wall of undead. They kept coming. The floodlights threw long shadows past them, like long black ribbons running off into the desert.
    "Not good, Sheriff." Wells looked over his shoulder at Miller, then down at the growing pile of empty ammo boxes and shell casings. "Running low, here. Fact, I'm down to about three boxes of ammo, and there are more coming. Maybe we been et by a bitch wolf and shat over a thousand foot cliff."
    Miller began to worry, something she hadn't done in a long time. She was doing only slightly better on ammo, but just because they had stocked more .30-06 rifle ammo than shotgun shells last month. Miller sighted another zombie, a decaying Mrs. McCormick, and fired. The right eye imploded, a reddish-grey cloud blooming at the back of its head. The woman fell forward, only to be replaced by another female limping behind her. Miller called to Needles. "Any luck with the phones?"
    "I've tried every number in your book, and a few of my own. There's a ring, but no one picks up. Either that, or I get one of those God-damned automatic 'out of service' messages every time." He slammed his fist on the drop cloth. Dust rose from Wells' desk. "Whole world must be screwed up. Bet those Goddamned A-rab terrorists done this."
    "Man, we're running out of time," said Scratch. He paced to and fro in his cell, fondling the bandage on his head.
    "If you have any brilliant ideas," Miller said coolly, targeting the next zombie, "now's the time to share."
    "Sure I got one. Let me and Needles loose and give us a couple of them scatterguns."
    "Not a fucking chance!" Wells, reloading again, turned his weapon on Scratch. "We ain't letting you anywhere near those weapons."
    "Bob," said Miller quietly, without looking up, "cover your position and shut up."
    "You ain't seriously thinking of arming this piece of shit, are you, Penny?"
    Miller looked, turned her Remington rifle on him and screamed, "Duck!"
    Wells dropped to the floor, scattering red plastic shells. Miller fired at the huge zombie, a tourist in Bermuda shorts, hitting it in the fat belly. The thing didn't even notice it had been shot. It