First Chapter Feature: The Hungry

When the world ends, the real monsters aren't always undead. Dive into the gritty, unapologetic first book of this zombie thriller series.

⚠️ Content Warning: This book contains graphic language, violence, and mature themes, including sexual violence and gendered slurs. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

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The apocalypse doesn’t wait for you to get dressed.

In The Hungry, Penny Miller is a small-town sheriff with zero patience and a whole lot of bite. When the dead start walking, she doesn’t run—she loads her shotgun.

But zombies aren’t the only predators left behind.

Gritty, brutal, and defiantly bold, The Hungry is not your average survival tale.

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CHAPTER ONE

“Say that again?”

Sheriff Miller slid worn boots from the edge of the desk, slammed them down on the messy floor. The antique office and jail were stuck in the middle of yet another round of remodeling. Paint cloth whispered. Dust rose, spread and slowly settled. The old-style radio crackled with static. Outside, night was spreading like a dark blanket over the little town that crouched further down the road.

“I said, he killed Miss Barbara by the library, Sheriff,” Deputy Bob Wells said. He spoke rapidly, that drawling baritone voice thick with panic. “He killed her with his bare hands, so I shot him.”

“Slow down. Shot who, damnit?”

A long pause. More static. “It was Old Man Grabowski, Sheriff. Sure as shit.”

Sheriff Penny Miller blinked and straightened her long legs. She leaned forward over the desk, stomach tingling. “You okay, Bob? You been drinking?”

“I ain’t had a drop, Sheriff, I swear. It was the strangest damned thing I ever saw. Old Grabowski came out of the bushes while I was talking to Miss Barbara. Looked like shit, some sorta zombie. He tackled her and started… biting. I tried to pull him off her, but his arm came right out of his shoulder. Miss Barbara was screaming. Jesus, blood come out of her quick as a double-dicked bull pissing on a flat rock. He wouldn’t stop, so I shot him. He kept on biting anyway. I shot him again, in the head this time, and then he quit.”

“And Miss Barbara?”

“Bled out like a pig. Then I saw some more of ‘em coming and I ran.”

“Some more of what?”

“Of them,” he repeated, as if that explained everything.

I’ve got a lunatic in uniform out on the township streets with a loaded gun. Great.

“Deputy Wells, where the hell are you?”

“I’m in the car, on the way back. Sheriff, this gets worse. All kinds of people are out on the street tonight, kind of stumbling around all drunk-looking. They look like… well, zombies. And, yeah, I do know how this sounds. I wouldn’t believe it either if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

“Zombies?” Sheriff Miller said. She sighed into the radio. “Come on, Wells, what’s really going on?” She stretched the microphone cord, went around her desk, stepped over some lumber to put on her gun belt as she spoke.

“I’m serious as liver cancer, Sheriff,” came the static-clouded voice through the speakers. “Dozens, maybe a hundred of them. A handful attacked Mrs. McCormick’s store, clawing and chawing. They flat-out ate her alive. I shot two or three with the Remington, but they just kept coming, so I had to light out for base.”

The sheriff heard Wells sounding panicked as hell, so she knew that whatever was happening, the deputy thought it was real enough. “What’s your position?”

“Like I said, in the cruiser. I’ll be back at the station in two minutes tops. Leave the prisoners locked up. We got to get out of here. Shit!” The radio popped. Wells stopped transmitting.

Miller wasn’t sure she bought the story. Maybe it was a prank, but that wasn’t like Wells at all. Big old serious redneck sonofabitch like him wasn’t prone to joking around. So something was going on out there. But freaking zombies? Come on! Whatever it was, Miller knew she had only a few minutes to prepare. She was the Sheriff and had her duty. She rounded the desk and grabbed her broad-brimmed hat off the rack. Out of her office, past the construction mess and into the small, old-fashioned western jail. The big key turned smoothly in the brand-new lock. The barred door swung open with a creak. The two prisoners looked up as she approached the cells.

“Get up,” Miller said.

“Time for my strip search, darlin’?” The closest prisoner swung his feet off the edge of his cot. Scratch was busily tattooed; a large biker with long, stringy hair, a scraggly beard and a darkened bandage on his head. He hefted his sweaty bulk off the cot and approached the steel bars. “I’m sure I’ve got something in here you’d like.” He leered and began to paw at his crotch.

“Shut up.” Miller produced a pair of handcuffs. “That little thing wouldn’t scare a gnat into buying a diaphragm. Now get over here and put your hands through the slot.” She indicated the large rectangular hole in the barred door. “Move it. We got us somewhere to go.”

“Where?” the second prisoner, Needles, asked. He was a tall, wiry, foul smelling man with a tattooed head and surprisingly delicate hands. He approached the door of his cell. If it weren’t for his weirdly tattooed head, Needles could have passed for an accountant rather than a Blood Rider. How he wound up in a motorcycle gang, Miller didn’t care to know.

“Sheriff, where we going?” he asked again.

Miller paused. She hadn’t yet considered that part of it. “We’re moving you to another facility,” she said. The lie didn’t come easy. She usually preferred to play it straight, even with the prisoners. “Come on, I don’t have all day.”

Scratch smelled trouble. “What’s the rush?”

Before the Sheriff could answer, Wells burst through the door. “They’re everywhere, Sheriff!” The former high school athlete was out of breath, uniform dark with sweat; clearly sorry he had let his gut get the better of him. “I saw more coming out of the woods as I was pulling up. We ain’t got much time.”

“Who’s coming, a lynch mob? Are they coming for me?” demanded Needles. He gripped the bars of the cell door, a sudden nervous tic making his face twitch. Sheriff Miller could smell his guilty sweat from two yards off. Needles was accused of drugging and sodomizing a minor. His wide eyes gave him away.

“Never mind. Put your hands through the slot,” Miller commanded again. She was surprised by the strength in her voice. She didn’t feel very strong. Zombies? The hell?

“What’s going on, Sheriff?” Scratch spoke calmly. He stepped away from the door and crossed his arms. Needles stepped back, a reluctant imitation of his leader. “We ain’t going nowhere ‘less you tell us the truth.”

Wells huffed with frustration and fear. “Sheriff, leave them. They’ll be safe in there.”

Miller stared at him.

“Probably,” he shrugged.

“I’m not leaving my prisoners,” Miller said bluntly. “We have our duty.”

“We don’t have time for this.” Wells turned his attention to the big motorcyclist and drew his club. “Okay, do what the Sheriff says, asshole, or I’ll come in there and crack your skull again. Then the zombies won’t have a problem getting at your shit-for-brains.”

“Zombies?” Scratch released a sharp laugh. “Oh, bullshit! What’s really going on? Some family members coming for my friend here?”

In his cell, Needles wilted.

“What is going on,” Sheriff Miller said, “is that we need to get you two to safety. We don’t have time for any macho posturing. Now, present your hands.”

“Holy bat shit, Scratch.” Needles muttered, peering out his small, high cell window. “You really got to check this out.”

Wells and Miller exchanged glances. “Get the shotguns ready,” she barked. Wells ran for the gun cabinet.

Meanwhile, Scratch stood on his own cot and looked through the barred window. “Whoa, what the fuck is that?”

“I told you,” said Wells, from across the room. He was loading two shotguns as fast as possible. “Zombies.”

“Damn.” Scratch hopped down from his cot immediately and slid his hands through the slot. “Move,” he ordered Needles. “We gotta go.” Miller snapped the cuffs around each of their wrists. She opened the cell doors, ushering the two prisoners out. As they headed down the hallway, Wells jabbed Scratch with his stick. Scratch stumbled a bit.

“Watch it, dickhead, or I’ll turn around and break you in two,” snapped Scratch.

Wells raised his stick, ready to strike. The biker glared back like a pit bull.

“Wells!” The deputy turned to see Miller with genuine rage in her eyes. “They are our prisoners. Knock it off.”

Wells opened the door to the parking lot and stopped short. The last sunlight was fading out, a yellow ball dipping down into a huge pond of black ink.

“My God,” Wells gasped.

Miller swallowed. “We ain’t gonna make it to the cars.”

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