American Revenant (Book 3): The Monster In Man (17 page)

Chapter 29

Jimmy sat up, raising a
hand to his head, which was already throbbing.  He could feel blood running
down his scalp and under his bite collar.  He turned, looking for the truck
behind him.  He saw nothing but empty road.

Facing forward again he
lifted his gaze to see a massive horde of undead coming straight for him. 
Moaning, grasping hands out and twitching.

“Oh shit!”  They were
closing on him quickly, leaving him no time to wallow in his pain or indulge in
self-pity. 

He cast a frantic look
around him, hoping for someplace safe.  The parking lot of the Children’s
Center was twenty feet away, which he gauged to be the distance the zombie
horde was from him, though they were narrowing that gap easily while he sat
there in the middle of the road.

Pushing up from the
ground, Jimmy’s head spun wildly, a wave of nausea twisting in his stomach.  He
stumbled several steps, nearly going down, before he got his balance.  His head
throbbing, guts roiling, fearing he would vomit on his shoes, Jimmy focused on
reaching the overcrowded parking lot.

He crossed the grass
border separating the lot from the street and sidled between two vehicles
parked so closely together he didn’t think the doors would open even half way. 
Not wasting his time trying, Jimmy dropped to the ground, pushing himself
beneath a minivan.  He had to shift his day-kit and the rifle that was still
strapped across his back to fit beneath the low vehicle. 

Not bothering to check on
the horde, he turned his head to see how close the next car was, scraping the
back of his head on the underside of the van.  He could see from this angle
that the large pickup sat higher than his current hiding place and began
shifting out from under the van toward it.

Before he could slide out
from under the car his vision filled with feet, bloody and torn, some missing
shoes, some not wearing anything at all, including skin.  Glancing behind, he
watched as the feet surrounded the vehicle.  He knew that he was trapped.

Faces started to appear
as the zombies sought their prey under the van.  Jimmy recoiled at the sight of
so many hungry zombies with snapping teeth.

He knew he couldn’t wait;
they would have him imprisoned under there until he was bitten or he died of
exposure.  Drawing in as deep a breath as the limited space would allow he
pushed in the direction of the pickup truck waiting on the other side of the
sea of feet and faces seeking him out.

Reaching the edge of the
van he could feel hands snatching at his clothes, trying to draw his legs into
waiting maws.  He felt a tug, heard a ripping sound as most of his right pants
leg was torn away, left hanging from inside the thick leather bite guard
wrapping his shin.    Without hesitating he shoved out from the vehicle,
knocking faces and feet away as he pulled his arms in and rolled toward the
truck, bowling over gut-suckers like ten-pins. 

Though they fell around
him it also brought their faces closer to biting range.  It was all the
motivation he needed to push harder, roll faster.  The rifle slung over his
shoulder bit into his back, jabbing him over and over, clacking against the
pavement with each roll.  He used the pain as yet another motivator.  Then he
was under the truck.

Those that he had knocked
down in his roll to the pickup truck pulled towards his hiding place, teeth
constantly snapping.  The extra space under the taller vehicle allowed him room
to maneuver, while making it easier for his ravenous pursuers to follow him.

Slipping the blade on his
hip from its sheath, Jimmy stabbed the first zombie within reach in its eye. 
The second reached for his arm, fingers brushing the bite guard before he could
bury the blade in its skull.  The dead continued to come, feet blocking his
view, occasionally trampling one of their undead kin reaching for Jimmy. 

The crush of zombies
surrounding his hiding spot began to blot out the daylight, leaving him in ever
increasing darkness.  Stabbing over and over again, the unrelenting horde
pushing further under the truck, he kicked out, slamming back the head of one
as it tried to bite into his boot.  He heard its skull
thwack
against
the undercarriage and he kicked it again, smashing the head into the frame of
the vehicle, pushing until the skull cracked and gave, the creature lying still
as stinking gray tissue dripped from the trucks frame

No matter how he tried he
could not stem the push of the undead, tenacious in their hunger.  Hands
grabbed, fingers brushing at his clothes.  He centered himself under the
vehicle, closed his eyes and waited to die. 

He saw Tam weeping; his
little girls sick at the loss of Daddy.  He pictured his grieving friends,
overcome with guilt.  He could see Gordy hating himself for sending him out to
die.  He felt the odd sensation of his life flickering behind his closed
eyelids, a movie set to ultra-high speed, showing him not moments lived, but
those he would not be there to see.  He was unable to wipe away the tears that
rolled down his face, dripping from his ears to the chill oil-stained pavement.

Deep within his chest
Jimmy began to growl, starting as a vibration, rising to a rumble and exiting
through parted lips.  He released his fear and sadness, placing rage in front
of all other emotion.  

“I’m going home mother-
fuckers
!” 
Jimmy lashed out with both feet, stomping faces as they pressed closer.  Each
hand flashed out, one burying his knife into the forehead of one dead thing,
while the other shoved up under the chin of another creature, forcing its mouth
closed and slamming the head backward, pounding it several times into the
underside of the truck, pulping the back of the skull.

He began to worm his way
toward the back of the vehicle, under the bed, hunching his body up, down and
sideways, all the while kicking and stabbing out at hands and faces reaching
for his soft flesh, still growling low in his throat.

“
Kill every last one
of you with my bare hands if I have to
,” he thought.

The mass of undead now
surrounding the vehicle prevented him from using his previous rolling tactic to
escape.  This time he would have to push out and up, standing amidst the
horde.  He wished to escape; they only wanted to feed.

Not worrying about making
noise, knowing that the creatures knew he was there, he paused for a breath as
he reached the end of the vehicle.  Jimmy kicked out, snapping the shin-bone of
a zombie, reveling in the dry
pop
it made.  He pushed out, amidst the
legs of the horde, saved momentarily by the press of so many dead bodies trying
to get to him.  He stood up quickly, the growl bursting from his throat,
becoming a roar as he sheathed his knife and pulled the rifle he still wore on
his back around, to use as a bar, pushing against the dead as they reached for
him.

Inside, Jimmy felt the darkness
rise to the top and he welcomed wholly the same darkness that had filled him
when he killed the pervert Richard.  Without looking through the crowd of dead
he began to shove with his rifle, pushing the gnashing teeth away from him,
zombies filling in the space behind him with every step, grasping with fingers
that could grip like a vise.  One zombie pushed nearly face to face with Jimmy,
straining to lean across the rifle pushing against it and bury its teeth in a
living face.  Jimmy stared into blank eyes and roared in the undead thing’s
face, the rage boiling up, filling every space inside him with raw heat.

Jimmy knew that it was
unlikely he would ever make it out of this horde; that getting home to his
family was a rage dream, but he would not stop.  There was no shortcut, and in
this instance the only way out truly was through.  A Latin phrase he had read
years ago and forgotten came to mind,
Aut viam inveniam aut faciam
, “I will either find a way, or make one,” he said under his
breath.  Had he not been fighting for his life he would have laughed as it
dawned on him that the phrase belonged to Hannibal, the renowned military
commander.

He continued to use the rifle as a ram, pushing through the crowd
grabbing at him, trampling squirming bodies when they fell before him.  He felt
fingers rake his back, tearing through his shirt, drawing burning lines on his
skin.  Those fingers must have caught the rifle sling, as he felt a sharp tug,
then he was stepping backward, hoping to stay on his feet.  He gave the rifle a
vicious shove, tearing the strap from the hand that gripped it.  Thrown off
balance he stumbled forward, stopping with his face centimeters from ragged
lips and clacking teeth.

Jimmy could see teeth and hands pressing in from all sides, closing on
him, ready to bring him down and tear into his flesh.  His heart beat wildly,
thrumming its fear-song in his chest.  He brought his arm up just as vise-like
teeth clamped down on his leather guard instead of his face.  Hands scrabbled
at his clothes, long dead fingers shredding his shirt and skin.  Suddenly a
sharp tug on his ear snapped his head to the right.  He could feel the bones in
his neck pop, the evil chiropractor still jerking at his ear. 

Fingernails began to dig into the soft skin behind his ear, and he could
feel the separation as it happened.  Pain like lava burned, radiating out,
enveloping his face and bringing tears to his eyes.  The sound of ripping skin
threw him into a frenzy and he lashed out to the right, the butt of his rifle
connecting with the jaw of the creature tearing his ear from his head.

He slammed the rifle into its face again, while continuing to move
forward.  Stopping, even for a second would be asking to die.  The last crash
of the rifle into its face caused the zombie to stumble, its fingers flexing,
releasing Jimmy’s severely torn ear.

“Son of a bitch,” he breathed, hot blood pouring down his face, ripples
of agony making him nauseous.  The smell of fresh blood caused a roar-like moan
to erupt from the surrounding dead.

Jimmy roared back at the mass of undead pressing in at him.  His shirt
was nearly shredded, hanging in tattered remnants from his shoulders.  Fingers
slid in between his pants and the belt he wore, nearly yanking him to a halt. 
Without hesitation Jimmy dropped one hand to the pant leg that was still tucked
into the bite guard, yanking it free then flipping his belt-buckle loose,
stepping out of his pants as they fell.

Now clothed only in a tattered shirt, his boxer shorts, and the leather
bite guards, Jimmy pushed back against the relentless crowd.  He still had his
rifle and the small day-kit that was cinched around his waist.

Jimmy could feel himself beginning to weaken, his strength sapped and
waning.  “Find a way, or make one, damn it!” he swore out loud.  Fingernails
raked his thighs and back, grabbed at the rifle strap and snatched at his hair,
but he kept going, shoving the rifle-butt into every face that came close.

Over the heads of the shoving horde he could see daylight close by, no
longer just a sea of death crushing in on him.  “Find one, find one,” he
huffed, breath after breath.  Then he was out, falling into empty space, no
dead shoving from the front, only those pushing at his back.

He went face first toward the pavement, tucking his shoulder and
rolling, coming up on his feet, head throbbing and disoriented from the tumble
and the torture that was his ear and face.  Jimmy threw a quick glance over his
shoulder, elated to see that he had gained several feet on the horde.  Not
willing to waste the meager advantage he took off at a dead run across the
Children’s Center parking lot, cutting across an overgrown field toward the
bank which he knew to be directly across Shinn Lane from his current position.

Jimmy ran, despite the throbbing chunk of sun that had
embedded itself in his skull and the nausea, he ran as hard as he could, hoping
to leave the horde behind
.

Chapter
30

Jimmy stumbled to a halt in the middle of the bank parking lot, leaning
over with hands on knees, sucking in large gulps of air.  Behind him the
zombies came, dogged in their pursuit, unwavering in their hunger.

Unwilling to relinquish the miniscule lead he had gained, Jimmy stood
and drove on, passing from the parking lot to an open field.  Half a mile from
the bank Jimmy came out of one copse of trees only to see another wide swath of
woods in front of him.  He hung his head briefly, feeling the blood pulsing
from his ear, running down his face to drip from chin. 

He had a speed advantage over the pursuing zombie horde, though he was
fully aware that he would have to rest soon.  The gut-suckers coming for him
did not.  Conscious of the fact that he was leaving a trail of blood for the
zombies to track, he had nothing to stanch the flow from his torn ear, nor did
he have the time to stop and manage it.  He let the blood run and continued on,
pushing for the distance, the separation that would allow him to tend to his
wounds.

Exiting the second row of trees, Jimmy angled toward Highway MM, picking
his way carefully but quickly across another open field.  Just before coming to
the highway Jimmy diverted to a small white house set back from the road. 

Leaning against the dingy vinyl siding he tore a strip of cloth from the
tattered remains of his shirt to press against the gaping wound of his ear. 
Jimmy brought the cloth close to his eyes, blinking several times to clear his
blurred vision.  The shred of material was damp from sweat and other fluids he
couldn’t name and he tossed the rag to the ground in frustration, afraid of
what he might put into the open wound.  He also feared the scratches on his
back and legs, wondering if he was already infected.

Jimmy hung his hammering head, the pain less of a burning fire now, more
a raw throb that seemed to pulse against his heartbeat.  His vision blurred
again, the trampled grass at his feet shimmering for a moment.  He vomited
between his spread feet, stomach heaving bile and little else. 

In the distance he could still hear the weighty moan of the horde and he
knew they continued to follow, coming along the blood trail he left behind. 
Often zombies would tire of a chase when their prey was out of sight for long,
but the massive horde did not seem to be slowing as they came through the trees
in the distance. 

Wiping sweat from his eyes Jimmy stood straight, swaying on his feet for
a moment before taking the first steps toward the highway.  His right foot
suddenly dropped from under him, throwing him to the ground.  He had found a
hole hidden in the tall grass, possibly made by a groundhog and a new agony was
added to his list as a torment of razors ripped through his ankle.  “Fuck!” He
swore, slamming his fist into the open ground several times. 

Jimmy pulled his foot from the hole, examining the rapid swelling.  He
couldn’t tell if the ankle was broken or not, he only knew it hurt like hell. 
“Find a way,” he muttered to himself, “find a way or make one.”

He pushed upright, gingerly attempting to set weight on his foot.  He
braced his toes on the ground and slowly let the ankle settle.  Jimmy nearly
fell over again as the razors shifted inside his skin and bones.  Glancing over
his shoulder he could see the horde, now half-way across the barren field. 

Carefully he hobbled forward, right toes, then left foot, right toes, left
foot, up and down, up and down.  “Oh you bastard,” he said, cursing no one. 

Instead of following Highway MM he crossed it into another field,
heading for yet another stretch of trees.  By now Jimmy was feeling
thick-headed, foggy, and he knew he wasn’t thinking clearly.  Moving forward
was the only thing he could think at the moment, finding a way.

Into the woods, working from tree to tree, dripping both blood and sweat
along his path, Jimmy pushed on, only thinking to get away from the horde. 
Reaching behind his back he slid the small fanny-pack style day-kit around to
his front, needing a drink of water.  His dismay at finding the pack torn apart
and empty was a palpable thing, adding weight to his step.

Coming out of the woods he found himself in a large graveled yard
scattered with heavy farm equipment.  There were several long barn-like
structures in various locations throughout the compound, as well as two short
silos.  “What the hell,” he said aloud.  “I know this place.  Centerville Road
should be that way.”  He looked in the direction he spoke of, and he could see
the road past a large garage and two houses separated by a narrow drive and big
yards.

He began to thread his way through the equipment, moving hastily toward
the road, which he could follow to Veteran’s Road, and back out to the main
highway. 

Stumbling along, Jimmy rounded the corner of a building and walked into
two zombies standing near a door into an open floor shop.  Startled, Jimmy
continued moving forward, shoving the two creatures away, pushing through them
instead of stepping back.

The gut-suckers had been caught off guard, shuffling after Jimmy as he
went into the open shop. Inside the shop he stopped behind a long worktable,
hoping to keep it between him and the zombies. 

He scanned the room for a moment, looking for a weapon before realizing
he still had his rifle strapped to his back.  The only thing he had made away
with.  “Lost my fuckin’ pants,” he slurred.  Bringing the suppressed rifle to
bear on the advancing creatures he popped off shot after shot, hitting one in
the torso.  The pain radiating from his ear, the throbbing in his ankle, and
intermittent waves of dizziness, made it difficult to steady the rifle. 

“Come on, man,” Jimmy said aloud.  He backed away from the table several
steps as the creatures bumped into it, reaching across to grab at him.  Raising
the rifle, Jimmy sighted on the zombie now sidling down the table, walking
forward and sideways at the same time.  The table shifted on one end, giving
the zombies an easier path.  Taking a deep breath Jimmy fired, though he
concentrated on making the shot it still took three rounds before he caught the
first gut-sucker in the head, dropping it.

“Damn, have to do better, there, Jimbo.”  Jimmy shrugged at his own
voice and took a step back, glancing over his shoulder to see a workbench
stretching along the wall, covered in various tools and pieces of equipment in
stages of repair, as well as a sharpening station with several wicked looking
implements with gleaming edges.  He had no idea what they were for, but was
glad to know they were there.

The zombie was two steps closer when Jimmy refocused, setting the badly
weaving sight on the shuffling, moaning thing.  His first shot went wild,
ricocheting off of something metal with a whine.  His second shot tore through
the creature’s neck, ripping out a large chunk of foul smelling flesh. 

“One more time Jimbo.”  He took a breath, relaxed (as much as he could
with a zombie just steps away), took aim and gently squeezed the trigger. 
Click
. 
He squeezed again, quickly, and
click
,
click,
click
.  He
looked down at the rifle dumbly, tilting it to look into the open bolt. 
“Fuckin’ empty!”  He stepped forward and jammed the rifle, barrel first into
the oozing face of the zombie.  It took several strikes before he was able to
punch through the skull, burying the warm barrel in brain tissue. 

Jimmy let the useless weapon fall with the zombie as he stumbled
backward, his head light and spinning.  Suddenly his feet were out from under
him, having stepped on a short piece of pipe that lay loose on the floor.  The
pipe shot out, ringing across the concrete floor as Jimmy fell backward,
striking the long workbench. 

The sharpening station sat next to a board, presumably used to carry
sharpened instruments.  Jimmy’s left shoulder struck the corner of the board,
flipping it up, flinging sharp tools into the air.  His head struck the side of
the bench, a tight ring of pain, a halo of fire, wrapped its way around his
skull.  His vision began to darken until one of those sharp tools fell across
his chest, tearing through the last shreds of his shirt and opening an eight
inch gash along his chest.

He sat upright, a screaming sob bursting forth as the new pain flared,
supplanting the raging agony in his skull.  Jimmy clutched as his chest,
fingers instantly drenched by the cascade of blood from the gaping wound. 
Using the bench to pull himself up stretched both abdominal and pectoral
muscles, causing new and brilliant pain to lance through his body. 

“
Just lay down, right fucking here, whatever finds me can have me
,”
he thought, even as he took a step forward.  One foot in front of the other he
made it out of the shop, heading in the direction of the houses he had glimpsed
earlier.

Long minutes later, the low moan of the horde unseen behind him still
driving him on, he stood in the middle of a narrow gravel drive separating two
brick-sided ranch-style homes.  He glanced back and forth, unable to think
clearly through the miasma of pain in body and mind.  “Which one, Jimbo?” he
asked himself aloud.  “That one,” he answered, pointing to a two story house he
spotted through a screen of trees across Centerville Road.

Crossing the road he stumbled up a gentle slope of knee-high grass,
making directly for the front door of the large house.  Without hesitation he
threw the unlocked door wide, stepping quickly into the house.  Just a few feet
inside the door he said, “Oh, shit,” as he took a step back.  “Anybody home?”
he called out several times.  When no one answered and nothing dead came out to
see if dinner had been delivered he shut the door behind him, flipping the
lock.

Jimmy felt delirious, and hot.  He knew he was feverish.  “Need water.” 
First to the kitchen, trying faucets he knew wouldn’t work.  To a half-bath on
the first floor, no water to be found there.

He stood at the bottom of the stairs to the second floor, the steps
appearing to Jimmy a nearly insurmountable mountain.  “Find a way,” he said,
taking the first step.

The bathroom on the second floor had several bottles of over-the-counter
pain medications.  He sat the aspirin aside, his clouded mind thinking “
blood
thinner,
” instead he chose several tablets of acetaminophen, swallowing
them dry.  “Still need water,” he said.

He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the bathroom mirror and refused
to look again.  He feared the horror-show reflected back at him, looking too
much like one of the things that now tracked him, hounds of blood.

He stood looking at the toilet for a moment before reaching behind and
lifting the heavy ceramic lid from the tank, which slid from his fingers,
cracking when it hit the tiled floor.  His shoulders sagged at the brackish
water that sat in the tank, un-refreshed for nearly two years.  “Damn it.” 
Even his curse was half-hearted and weak.

Jimmy sat on the closed lid of the toilet, opening a nearly empty bottle
of peroxide found in a small cabinet under the sink.  Taking a deep breath he
upended the bottle over his torn ear, squeezing the plastic to squirt the
liquid into the wound.  He cried out when the cool peroxide hit the open
wound.  Dropping the bottle he slid from the seat to the floor, tears and
bloody foam dribbling down his face.

Minutes passed on the floor, pain causing alternating waves of dizziness
and blurred vision.  Eventually Jimmy raised his head and looked at the dark
brown bottle lying next to him.  He picked it up, swishing it to gauge how much
of the healing liquid remained.  Grunting, he slid his buttocks out along the
tile, leaning backward so that he could douse the long gash along his chest
with the last of the peroxide. 

Another breath, another squeeze of the bottle, a loud sob and Jimmy
passed out.  Minutes later he woke to see the last of the pinkish foam dwindle
away, as if being absorbed into the gash.  “Find a way, buddy,” Jimmy
muttered.  “You got it, Rick,” he said aloud. 

Carefully making his way from the bathroom he went first into a bedroom
across the hallway, finding a teenage girl’s room he turned around and hobbled
to the end of the hall, where he thought the master bedroom would be.

The room was large and comfortably furnished, and for a moment Jimmy
considered laying down on the dusty bed.  “Might not get up again, Jimbo. 
Gotta find a way home,” he muttered.  In the spacious closet he found a pair of
suit pants that, while short, fit around his waist.  Hanging next to that he
saw a woman’s sweater, red, with a green wreath surrounded by tiny bells of
silvery cloth.   “
Chilly out, and Tam’ll like the Christmas stuff on it
,”
he thought as he pulled the sweater from its hanger and set it on a nearby
chair. 

Inside a massive mahogany dresser he found several men’s white t-shirts,
one of which he used as a bandage, tying it around his chest, the knot in front
pressing another folded shirt against the wound.  He wrapped one of the shirts
around his head, pressing against the ear, and closing the wound.

Exhausted, Jimmy sat back in a cloth upholstered chair next to a window
that looked out onto trees, with just a glimpse of the road nearby.  His vision
blurred again, making the trees waver and swim.  He blinked his eyes several
times, attempting to clear his sight without much success.  “Rest ‘em for a
minute,” he said to the window.