Dead World (Book 1): Dead Come Home (10 page)

She wrapped herself in the sleeping bag and could no longer keep herself from crying. Quiet, large tears at first. Then sobbing with smaller, faster tears burning down her face. It was all so much — her family was halfway across the country, she had just shot and killed a man who’d already died right in front of her, and she had no way of knowing if what she’d seen today was also happening in her hometown or how long her family would be safe.

As the sun descended, Lily found that shooting Brian had shattered the “Grandfather’s-Sitting-Room” image of the mill. The twilight of sunset betrayed the age of the facility, betrayed the intentions of the encroaching woods. The woods would, in time, reclaim the clearing that rightfully belonged to the trees. Grandfather Mill was nothing more than a passing guest among the trees. Brian’s corpse would be, as well.

She sat on her desk and looked toward the peaceful mill.

Man’s destructive power created the mill. Nature’s destructive power makes it beautiful.

She left her head resting in her left hand and drifted to sleep, gun in her right hand, flashlight in her lap, and the last tears she would shed for a while drying on her face.

Dead Come Home

Chapter 5

Involuntary Allies

Mike shut off the engine, then looped the key onto his D-ring keychain and hooked it through a belt loop at his right side. He reached for the loaded Desert Eagle and pulled the slide, letting out a deep and somewhat resigned sigh, chambering a round with a slingshot motion. He checked to make sure the safety was on before tucking the weapon into the back of his waistband. He bloused out the back of his shirttail, concealing the firearm underneath it.

I hope to god Tom doesn’t notice this thing. I never did get one of those concealed carry permits he was always nagging me about.

Mike opened the door and stepped from the vehicle. Something suddenly struck him as odd. There was almost no sound, no telltale hints of human activity, coming from the neighborhood—a neighborhood full of families, children, and elderly. Aside from the faint crackling of the burning debris coming from the vehicle accident around the corner, Mike couldn’t hear anything—no cars, voices, lawnmowers, playing children, or other movement could be heard coming from anywhere in the surrounding area.

Mike’s heart dropped into his stomach when he reached the front door … the glass storm door was closed, but the main front door was standing wide open. He reached around behind him and got a grip on the pistol at his back as he eased open the storm door and crossed the threshold. His heart returned to his chest, wildly beating out a hummingbird’s rhythm that seemed to vibrate his entire torso.

“Ma? You here?” he called out in a tone just above a whisper. He stepped the rest of the way inside and eased the storm door shut behind him before making his way quietly towards the living room, just past and to the right of entryway. The unexpected presence of a large figure at the back of the room caused Mike to jump. He was a large man, wearing olive green slacks tucked into a pair of shined black leather boots and a khaki, well-ironed blouse with a Sheriff’s Department patch on each shoulder.

Easy, Mikey. It’s just Tom … Thank god. He must’ve come back for Ma like he said he would.

Sheriff Tom was standing in front of the large, eight-by-ten foot window at the backside of the living room. His head was high and cocked to the side, as though he was trying to see something at the far end of the backyard or out near the lake. Mike figured the local lawman was waiting to see if those two escapees from the state hospital that Ma had mentioned on the phone, were still out there somewhere. Mike felt a momentary sense of ease at the sight of not only a familiar face but a law enforcement officer. This feeling was quickly shaken when Mike noticed that Tom’s service pistol was absent from its holster.

Tom’s right hand was concealed by his large torso, and Mike wondered if Tom was holding his pistol in that hand. He tried to speak to Tom as lightly as possible, not wanting to startle him. Mike didn’t feel like getting shot by accident. Not today. Actually, Mike didn’t feel like getting shot at ever.

“Tom,” Mike said, his volume just above a whisper. “Is everything under control or do you still have a situation? Is Ma still here or did you take her over to the Sheriff station?”

At the sound of Mike’s voice, Tom craned his head over his left shoulder, but did not speak. Not wanting to draw attention to the fact that he had an unregistered, 44-caliber hand-cannon concealed illegally in the back of his trousers, Mike released his grip on the Desert Eagle and once again bloused out the back of his shirt.

“Tom? Look I know you don’t know me all that well, but if you need an extra set of hands, I’ll do what I can to help. It’s the least I can do for you watchin’ after Ma the way you have.” Tom’s body followed his head only slightly, turning to look at Mike in an odd angle—his body was still profile to Mike but his head was turned further in his direction. His eyes locked on Mike but his head did not follow them, the neck muscles having reached their maximum point of extent. Mike began to wonder if the Sherriff had recently suffered a stroke, though he didn’t remember Ma having ever mentioned anything about it. Sherriff Tom made a grunting sound, as if clearing his throat, and Mike thought that perhaps he was finally about to speak. Then the throat clearing turned into a gurgled moan as Tom’s head and body turned to face Mike completely.

“Oh … sweet Jeezus.” Mike gasped.

The entire right side of Tom’s lower face was torn to shreds, as though something or someone had ripped the flesh from his jaw. Red-tinted edges of bone could be seen protruding through the remaining tatters of muscle and sinew. The gurgled moan grew into a savage growl as Tom dropped his shoulders and spread out his arms, crouching like a predator about to pounce. Mike slowly reached back for his pistol and held out his left hand, motioning for Tom to stay back.

“Easy, Tom,” Mike said. “You’ve been bit. You’re not yourself right now, but I can try to get you some help if you’ll let me. But I need you to hold it together.”

Tom’s growl grew more intense, sending out a pink spray of blood and spittle. Yellow eyes glared at Mike like those of a wild dog closing in on some helpless prey.

“Tom,” Mike whispered pleadingly. “Please don’t make me.”

The immense man roared, and every part of his large frame charged headlong at his target. Mike did not think, did not panic. His hands simply reacted without him, doing what they had been trained to do … what they had done so many times.

Before Mike was even aware of what he was doing, the Desert Eagle was in front of him, leveled, aimed, and fired. Tom’s head burst open like a piñata as the large caliber bullet drilled through his left eye socket. Grey matter, blood, and bone fragments painted the ceiling and walls with a grotesque mosaic of gore. The bullet exploded from the back of Tom’s skull and crashed into the large rear window, shattering both sides of the double-paned glass. Shining shards of sharp glass flew, reflecting slivers of light from the setting sun in all directions as Tom’s careening corpse spun with the impact and came crashing down upon Ma’s oak coffee table. One of the table legs gave at the joint, sending Tom’s shoulders sliding towards the floor, his immense rear end pointed to the ceiling.

Mike knew there was no need for him to confirm the kill. All that remained of what had once been Sheriff Tom’s head was a fragment of lower jaw from which a few crowned molars loosely hung. Mike looked at Ma’s broken coffee table, and a feeling of intense dread galloped across his soul like the proverbial dark rider on a pale horse.

Oh, no … dear God, no … Ma!

Mike turned to his left to make a break for the back bedroom where he’d told Ma to take shelter. As he rounded the corner of the entryway wall, he suddenly collided with a man in a pair of blue scrubs. Another pair of yellow, decayed, diseased eyes closed in upon him. Hands grabbed and teeth gnashed, missing Mike by a hair’s breadth.

The man gripped Mike’s shoulders and pushed forward against his bracing arms. Mike rolled onto his back with the force of the push. He shoved the sole of his boot into the man’s hip and, as he felt his lower back make contact with the tile, he pushed off hard with his leg. The man flew through air, flipping head over heels over Mike and landing hard in front of the fireplace with enough force to knock the wind out most people.

The former Marine got to his feet and brought his weapon around. He pulled the trigger, but was suddenly thrown forward as someone shoved him from behind.

Another one. Gooddammit, I’m not paying attention.

He did his best to roll forward with the blow, tucking his body into a tight ball to avoid running straight into the other attacker. He couldn’t be certain that he’d made the headshot. He’d been hit too soon to see.

Mike rolled back to his feet, spun around, and fired two rounds—a “double-tap,” consisting of one center-mast shot to the chest, followed by a clean headshot. The first shot was completely unnecessary, if not useless, he realized. But, once again, the conditioning of years of combat training overrode conscious thought. The second attacker, whom Mike now saw was a tall and skinny man in Wranglers and a flannel shirt, fell to the floor in a lifeless heap. The headshot must have caught him in the mouth, popping the upper half of his head off almost like a bottle cap.

Mike spun 180 degrees to confirm his kill on the man in the scrubs and was tackled once again. The bullet had blown a good six-inch hole through the man’s chest, which should have put him down. But he was still coming, pushing Mike back into the living room. The pair collided with the red brick fireplace that sat along the right wall of the living room, and Mike felt the unforgiving masonry crack against his shoulder blades. His wrist smashed hard against the mantle and his grip was loosened. The heavy pistol flew from his hand. The man gnashed at Mike’s throat, biting and clawing desperately. Mike raised his right leg, shoving his knee between them as he groped for the fire poker that he hoped would still be to this left, where Ma had always kept the fireplace tools. His hand closed around cold iron and, flipping the tool up, Mike thrust it upwards at his attacker’s lower jaw.

Mike had been expecting to hear the sound of impalement. Instead, the tool impacted with a
bwoooong
sound, one that resembled a gong. He glanced at the tool in his hand only to realize that he’d grabbed the fireplace shovel. The shock of the blow had, however, stunned his attacker briefly. Mike shoved him off with his knee, reared back with the shovel, and swung as though he were the last man at bat in the World Series.

Gong!

The man roared and stumbled back. Mike swung again, this time upwards, catching the man just under the chin.

Gong!

The scrub-wearing, homicidal madman was thrown onto his back, and Mike scrambled to retrieve the Desert Eagle from the floor before his attacker could recover. He tossed the shovel aside, rolled at the weapon, wrapped his fingers around the grip, and came back up just as the man in scrubs was stumbling to his feet. Mike took one gasping breath, aimed, and squeezed. The man’s head became a mess of red and white fragments, washing the front of Mike’s shirt and pants with blood and gore.

“Ma?!” Mike called out as he removed the clip from his weapon and took inventory of his ammo. He slammed it back home … two rounds left … one in the clip and one in the pipe. He now regretted his decision to leave the extra clips in the vehicle. He wondered if anymore of these things were still hiding somewhere in the house. Just in case, he took up the fireplace poker in his left hand and the Desert Eagle in his right before making his way towards the back room … towards Ma.

She woulda locked herself back there like I told her. Ma’s a tough old bird. She’s gonna be okay.

He’d felt this way many times before. His entire body, every nerve, every one of his senses, peaked at a level of intensity that a training sergeant had once described to him as “turning your body into the head of a penis.” He forcefully slowed down his breathing. In this heightened state of awareness, his own breathing, even his pulse, sounded out in his skull as loudly as would the drums of war. He stepped into the kitchen and navigated slowly over the body of the man in the Wranglers, suddenly recognizing the large, oval-shaped silver belt buckle at the fellow’s waist. This was, or at least had been, Percy Watkins, an older man who lived in the house around the corner. He’d borrowed a post-hole digger from the guy once when Ma’s fence had needed repairing.

Mike crept on into the hallway. All was deathly silent as he reached the door to the back bedroom. Mike had to stifle a whimper when he saw that the door was open a just a crack. He used the poker to slowly shove the door open. About halfway, the door hit something. Mike decided to risk drawing attention and flipped on the hallway lights. Through the crack he saw a pair of feet, adorned with a pair of bloodstained and very familiar blue slippers.

“Ma? MA!” Mike lost all resolve and began shoving on the door until he could get himself inside.

Had Mike eaten anything that day, he would have puked it up. What he saw sent him into a mixed fit of sobs and dry heaves. There before him lay what remained of his beloved Ma. She must have seen Sheriff Tom through the window and gone to open the front door to let him in. That had to be how they’d gotten inside … why the front door had been opened.

Ma was wearing her favorite flannel nightgown, now torn open to reveal her ruptured abdomen. Her face was frozen as if in a scream and her entrails were strewn in a bloody mess about the floor. It didn’t take much examination to know they had fed on her. Mike wiped the torrential flood of tears from his cheeks and scanned the room. His father’s rifle lay propped up in the corner. Ma must have left it behind when she’d gone to answer the door. Trying hard not to look too long at the horror before him, Mike put the poker down and went to retrieve his father’s weapon. He stepped around Ma’s body with uneasy steps.