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

finger hooked over his belt. Scratch was still staring at the woman like a hound trying to understand the MTV Awards. Miller wondered why. She watched as Crosby and the woman disappeared behind a curtain.
    Almost as soon as they were out of sight, another shout rose up outside. The crowd surged, moving toward the new distraction. Scratch began to move with the others, but Miller held him back for a second time.
    “Let them go,” she said.
    “Why?”
    “We’re outsiders in this village. Keep your powder dry a while longer. Let’s see how all it shakes down.”
    “You’re the boss.”
    Scratch still seemed distracted by something. Miller didn’t have time to ask by what. Almost as quickly as the crowd closed in, they opened up again, now pressing against the walls and shelves. Someone started shrieking.
    “Help! She needs a doctor! Someone get Carter!”
    And then two people came bursting into the General Store. One was a dirty, bruised, bloody woman dressed in torn rags that were splattered with blood. She had dead leaves and spider webs in her hair. The other was helping the hurt woman stay on her feet, urging her on and keeping her from falling to the floor. Miller felt Scratch as he stiffened beside her, shocked and more than a bit pissed off.
    The voices in the room were all whispering the battered woman’s name.
    “Greta!”
    Miller’s head snapped around. She focused on the woman’s face. The figure before her was so damaged and torn as to be almost beyond recognition. Greta? Yes, underneath the grime, it was clearly the woman who had stolen their money and taken the minivan the night before. With all those fresh wounds and open sores, the first thing that came to Miller’s mind was a zombie. But Greta was talking quietly to the person helping her. She wasn’t dead. She was still alive, still human.
    Still, that didn’t make Miller feel any better. Greta looked like hammered owl shit.
    Greta’s frightened eyes scanned the room. They finally settled on Scratch and Miller.
    Greta said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “How could you do this to me?”
    “Do what?” Scratch and Miller answered in unison.
    One of the cranked up, hostile men came forward from the crowd. “Did this guy hurt you, Greta?” He didn’t even wait for a response. He and two friends, filled with adrenaline and hatred, all large and mean-looking, started right for Scratch, flat out happy to have someone to beat on. One of them pulled a hunting knife. The other grabbed a heavy metal ladle from a rack of kitchen utensils. Things were about to get butt ugly.
    “Wait a minute,” Miller said. “Take it down a notch.”
    Scratch said, “Mister, you don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t touch her. She stole from us!”
    But the hostile men kept coming forward. They were too high on anger and fear to listen. Greta looked beaten and raped and her arrival had given them a reason to seek revenge. The crowd parted to let them close the gap. The mob mentality had emerged. Some eyes were feral, looking forward to witnessing the violence to come. They didn’t care who won or lost, so long as someone paid a price for their terror.
    “Hold on there, everyone,” Miller said, in her best official voice. The men ignored her. Scratch growled and shifted his feet to take them on.
    Miller had only a second or two to come to a decision. She unsnapped the restraint on her holster, yanked out her old school weapon, and pointed the .357 at the face of the man directly in front. She focused on the spot between his eyebrows. Her hands were not shaking.
    “Freeze,” Miller said. He froze.
    As Miller had hoped, her face and tone—and the weapon—brought the men up short. The one who was the focus of Miller’s dead on aim looked ready to pee himself. The other two heroes stumbled over themselves in their attempts to fade back into the crowd.
    Miller said, “You need to think this over more carefully, citizen. Let’s both take a