The Hungry (Book 3): At the End of the World by Steven Booth, Harry Shannon

wrinkled her nose. The bodies in the room were frightened and some of the townspeople clearly hadn’t bathed recently. The joy of a fresh bath hadn’t lasted long.
    “Carter!” shouted the harried woman behind the counter. “Get yourself in here and do your job.”
    “I’m right here, Michelle. Everybody settle down. Whatever’s going on, let’s talk, we’ll figure it out.”
    As Crosby, Miller, and Scratch moved through the rest of the crowd, Miller got a good look at the woman behind the counter. Michelle was average height, with a slim but athletic build and an aquiline face. She sported red hair, one shade lighter than Miller’s own, that flowed down around her shoulders. She wore a white t-shirt, blue jeans, and a green, unbuttoned flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up above her elbows. She looked angry, scared, and relieved all at the same time. The three of them closed the distance, Miller gently moving aside a thin brunette with thick glasses who was maybe a dozen years past pretty.
    “Hey, Michelle,” said Carter, as casually as if he had met her on the street. “Wanna fill me in?”
    “I’m trying to run my business.”
    Before Michelle could say anything else, the crowd started shouting again.
    “She’s ripping us off.”
    “Extortionist!”
    “What gives her the right to cheat us like that?”
    Crosby raised his hands, palms toward the floor. “All right, all right! I get that you’re upset. But you’re going to have to behave yourselves. Knock it off, or I’m going to clear the store and have Michelle close her doors until I can sort this thing out.”
    Miller thought Carter was doing a decent enough job. She stood back and exchanged looks with Scratch, who was staring at Michelle slack-jawed. Miller registered his expression but didn’t have time to wonder what it was about. Her mind was on the mob. A few of the people didn’t like being told to quiet down. They urged others forward and some started shouting. But most of the crowd—and Miller estimated there were at least seventy people jammed in the little store—got the message. The calmer folks eventually shushed the noisy ones.
    “That’s better,” said Crosby. “Michelle, are you okay?”
    Michelle brushed some of her long red hair away from her face. “Yeah, now I am. Sorry I yelled at you that way.”
    “I hear you brought in some fresh supplies last night.”
    “Yeah, I…”
    A voice from the crowd shouted, “And she’s selling canned goods for an arm and a leg, the bitch.”
    “Look at this, Constable,” said a man standing nearby. He pointed to a sloppy handmade sign hastily thumbtacked above a rack of shelves that stood right in the middle of the room. “She wants thirty dollars for one damn bag of rice.”
    “I hear you. You don’t need to shout.”
    “Thirty dollars!”
    “That does seem a bit much,” Crosby agreed.
    “She’s got fresh meat back there, and she want’s fifty dollars a pound for it,” offered a male voice. Miller felt the undercurrent, a coiled spring of rage. She could imagine these folks rioting and lynching someone. They were clearly terrified and really pissed off, and that was a lethal combination. If the woman was profiteering she was likely breaking the law.
    “Hey,” shouted Michelle, in an exasperated tone. “You wouldn’t believe what supplies are going for down below in the flatlands. I just paid through the nose and raced back up here. You should be happy that I was able to get this stuff at all.”
    “Michelle,” said Crosby, stepping around the counter, “may I speak to you privately?”
    “You can speak to me anywhere you like, Carter, but it ain’t going to change my prices, not after what I paid down the mountain.”
    Crosby turned to the crowd. “Now, you folks behave yourselves. I’m going to get this straightened out. We won’t be a minute.”
    The Constable and Michelle headed towards the back. Miller held Scratch by the waistband of his jeans, one