The Demented Z (Book 1):The Demented (15 page)

Directly
ahead, the glow continued to brighten, and then suddenly a motorcycle zipped
across the nearest intersection and into the darkness. The red glow of the taillight
remained briefly burned on Tom’s retinas, before fading away. Stomping on the
accelerator, he flew down the road before tapping the brakes briefly to crank
around the corner. The tires squealed and the cab lurched to the side, nearly
tipping.

A
half block ahead the single red taillight could be seen glowing.

Easing
off the accelerator, not wanting to frighten them, Tom flashed his light
several times. The motorcycle seemed to slow. No brake lights, but it was
definitely letting them catch up. Just as it passed a wrecked van lying on its
side, the bike hit the brakes and darted in behind the protection of the tipped
over vehicle.

Tom
eased up next to the bike while Ben hit the button to lower his window.

“No
way!” Ben blurted out.

Looking
over to the passenger window, Tom could hear two voices from below, both
familiar. Both Hank and Rachael’s excited faces suddenly filled the window.

“Get
in, get in.” Tom said.

Not
needing to be spurred on, Rachael opened the rear door and slid in across the
long bench seat, laying the crossbow next to her. Reaching over the front seat,
she wrapped her arm around Tom’s chest and said, “Thank God. I didn’t know if
I would see you again.”

Tom
turned and looked over his shoulder to see tears welling up in her eyes. “It’s
really good to see you guys. I didn’t know who was on the motorcycle…we could
hear it a ways off.” He patted her hand that rested on his chest and looked
out the back window to see Hank setting a couple small gas cans in the back.

After
Hank piled into the back and closed the door, Tom said, “Worth throwing the
motorcycle in the back?”

Hank
shook his head. “No way, that was the hairiest ride I’ve ever been on, like
running around tapping on hornets’ nests in your birthday suit. Sounds
exciting, but really it’s just plain terrify’n.”

Tom
turned and sped away from the bike.

“Danny?”
Rachael asked from the back.

“We
haven’t even looked for him yet. He’s still out here.” Ben replied, clearly
angry about the situation.

Tom
said, “I’ve been trying to get fuel and transportation first.”

“Well,
let’s go find his sorry butt.” Hank added from the back, sensing an argument
brewing.

After
several minutes of dodging through wreckage and navigating narrow streets, they
were back to what they all agreed was the scene of the attack that had
separated them. They drove slowly down the street, stopping directly in front
of the house that Tom had last seen Danny disappear behind. Still holding the
flashlight from earlier, Ben jumped out before anyone could say anything,
oblivious to the dangers. Tom backed the truck up a bit and angled it so that
the headlight lit up the space between houses.

“I’m
going to follow him. Hank, hop up here and jet out of here if you have to.”
Tom said.

Rachael
started to say something about how bad of an idea this was, but he was well
aware of that and already out the door into the cool night air. The sounds of
infected still echoed through the small houses. Without street lamps, he was
barely able to see halfway down the block before shapes faded into black.

Gripping
the pistol, Tom stalked after Ben, using the truck headlight to find his way.
The space between the houses was narrow, mostly taken up by several large
shrubs that were big enough to be trees. The air smelled damp, earthy.

Tom
could see Ben’s light bobbing in the darkness just beyond the reach of the
truck’s headlight. He chased after the glow as it rounded the corner that led
to the back of the house.

Just
as he turned the corner there was a loud shout, “No!”

The
light sat motionless near the back of the yard, pointing down at the ground
just out of Tom’s vision. He did not have to see what Ben was looking at to
know he had found his brother.

Running
up next to Ben, he looked down at what was left of Danny. The level of gore
was more than he ever could have expected. Sneakers and tatters of his green
shirt were all that were recognizable. Most of his face appeared chewed off,
leaving bits of gristle and bone in a mound of red. The rest of his body had
fared no better. Legs, arms, chest, stomach, all ripped up and only vaguely
identifiable. The grass all around was smeared in bloody footprints from the
feeding frenzy.

Like
getting startled by a lightning bolt, Tom suddenly realized they were just
standing there, exposed, likely with infected nearby. If none were close
initially, Ben’s scream was sure to draw them. Tom spun around, pistol out.
Other than the faint light spilling between the houses, he saw only darkness.

Turning
back to Ben, he whispered, “We gotta get out of here.”

Ben
spun around, lunging at Tom, knocking both of them to the ground. “You killed
him! You killed Danny!” Spit flying out of his mouth, he continued to scream
obscenities at Tom.

The
flashlight lay in the grass, partially spotlighting the two men.

All
of Ben’s weight pressed down on Tom’s chest, his arm’s pinning him to the
ground. Tom struggled to breath under the weight. He knew he could bring the
pistol to bear, but Ben did not deserve that. He was pissed. Rightly so, just
at the wrong person. The infected had killed his brother, Tom was his
punching bag.

“I
told you…we left him…” Ben choked up, sobbing, and then finished with a growl
of frustration, still holding Tom to the ground.

Tom
heard another growl to his side. Twisting his head, he could see several slow
moving undead shambling into the light, their shadows huge and distorted on the
nearby house. Their movements were slow, but methodical. They had more prey
in sight.

“Coming…their
coming.” Was all Tom could whisper out, his voice barely audible even to his
own ears.

Ben
continued to put all of his weight down on Tom’s chest, screaming obscenities
in his face. Tom no longer heard Ben’s words, but only watched as the slow
procession continued to approach, nearly to them. He could now see that they
were covered in blood. Long red globs hung from their chins.

With
the undead nearly on top of them, desperation took over. Raising the gun up
next to Ben’s head, Tom pulled the trigger. The loud boom echoed through the
night.

Startled
by the sudden noise and concussion right next to his head, Ben twisted to the
side, letting off of Tom’s chest. This was just the relief he needed. Quickly
raising his right shoulder, he heaved Ben off of him and rolled onto his side.
Firing rapidly, he began dropping the undead. The first two fell to the ground,
nearly landing on Ben. Several more continued their slow onslaught. Trying to
get to their prey, the next wave began tripping over their fallen brethren. Tom
sat up to get a better angle on them and gain distance from their reaching
grasp. Squeezing the trigger, the left side of the first undead’s head blew
off in chunks. Continuing to rapidly pull the trigger, the lifeless bodies
piled up in a grotesque heap of twisted limbs.

Tom
had not been counting the shots, instead firing rapidly out of sheer
desperation. He noticed Ben backing away into the dark to his right. Two
undead remained as Tom felt the deflating sensation of the slide locking back
into place on an empty magazine. Gaining his feet, he turned to run.

Hank’s
shadowed form came rushing out of the darkness, crossbow at the ready. Tom
heard a high pitched whistle as a bolt flew past him, slamming into one of the
undead. Turning, he saw the lead walker pitch over with a bolt sticking out of
his forehead.

“Get
to the truck!” Hank shouted while hunched over reloading.

Instead
of listening, Tom waited for him to let loose the second bolt. Immediately
after the second undead dropped to Hank’s shot, Tom ran in and yanked both bolts
free of the corpses. Turning to race back to the truck, he could hear howls
throughout the town, many sounding very close.

Hank’s
silhouette disappeared around the side of the truck as Tom sprinted toward the
bright headlight.

“Get
in, they’re everywhere.” He heard Hank shout from somewhere inside.

Tom
leapt into the bed of the truck, landing hard on his side. “Go!” he shouted.
Rolling onto his back, he grabbed his shoulder, pain shooting down his arm.
Unsure yet if it was a serious injury, he just hoped they hurried and got out of
here. The growls and screams were right outside the truck. Several loud
thumps sounded as the demented slammed into the side of the truck, shrieking in
rage. Their screams were blotted out by the squealing of tires as Rachael
stomped on the accelerator.

As
they were pulling away from the nightmare, Tom saw movement out of the corner of
his eye. Turning, he saw a pair of blackened, swollen hands reaching up into
the truck bed. With an angered growl, a head popped up over the side. It was a
middle aged man with dirty, cracked skin, his eyes red and swollen. Pulling
back his lips in a grimace, the demented heaved a leg up and over the side,
climbing into the bed.

Rachael
swerved hard, trying to shake him off the back.

The
movement caused Tom to shift onto his shoulder, pain shot down his arm and up
into his skull. Looking back, he saw the demented still clinging to the side,
nearly in the truck bed. Desperately, Tom began rifling through the items lying
in a mess next to him.

With
a thud, the demented dropped into the truck near Tom’s legs. It immediately
began scratching at Tom's legs, tearing and pulling at him. Tom tried to kick
at it, but could not get his legs out of the thing’s grasp.

The
truck came skidding to a stop, tires screeching, and white smoke rolling in
billowing clouds. Tom slammed hard into the rear of the cab as suffocating
smoke washed over him. The air smelled of exhaust and burnt rubber. Right in
front of him, the demented’s face screamed with anger, opening his mouth to take
a piece out of Tom. Lifting his left forearm, Tom pushed back with everything he
had, trying to keep the demented away. He could hear shouts to the sides, and
the truck bounced as someone climbed in. With amazing speed, the thing was
ripped away from him and flung out the back of the truck. Ben stood at the
back, watching the thing fall to the pavement.

Hank
came rushing around the back and disappeared out of view, only sickening thuds
and grunts of exertion could be heard.

Tom
tried to get to his knees, but his muscles would not listen. They trembled,
trying to obey, but had finally run out of fuel. He heard the tailgate open as
Ben reached down, pulling him to his feet.

“Let’s
get out of here.” Was all he said.

Before
even getting out of bed, Kelly knew something was wrong. It was not the
rhythmic pounding that still came from downstairs, but instead the lack of all
other sounds. Like every house, her's had noises. They were the noises that woke
new home owners, ticks and snaps that startled them in the night, but having
lived in the house for more than ten years it was their disappearance that
seemed so loud.

Rolling
over in bed, she checked to be sure Sam was still next to her. Head resting on
his balled up “Blankie,” arms splayed out to his sides, he slumbered the deep,
peaceful sleep that only toddlers could obtain. Looking down at him, she nearly
felt the ugly world slip away, his calm innocence nearly bringing her to tears.

Whispering,
she said, “I’m so sorry baby. You don’t deserve this.”

Sitting
up, she looked at her alarm clock, its face stared back, black and dead. She
tested the lamp and found it dead as well.

Working
her way downstairs, she tested a few switches on the way, confirming the power
outage. Nearing the base of the stairs, she was still amazed the pounding at
the front door still continued. It had slowed and become quieter over time,
but the Chandlers were relentless.

Reaching
the bottom of the stairs, she found the rooms dark, lit only by the slivers of
light slipping their way around the wood shutters. Small dust particles
fluttered in the sunbeams, like tiny butterflies basking in the sunlight. She
peered into the darkness, sensing something there. Only after several minutes
of standing did she decide it was the deep silence, interrupted only by the
pounding that had her mind playing tricks on her.

Use
to the house in the night, she was able to make her way to the kitchen. Once
there, she rummaged through the junk drawer until her fingers found the cold
metal of the flashlight. Clicking it on, she began scanning around the kitchen,
knowing a bloody, angry face would appear out of the dark. Her heart raced.
In her mind she could already see the hideous face, opening its mouth to chomp
down on her flesh. She wanted to shut the flashlight off, close her eyes and
race back upstairs.

Nothing’s going to be there. You’re just being paranoid.

Only
after scanning the kitchen and making a loop through the entire downstairs, did
she begin to feel better. Now standing near the front door, she listened
intently, wondering if there were others with the Chandlers. The sound was
staggered, but rhythmic, not seeming to come from more than one or two people.

A
shuffling noise from behind her caused her to spin around, flashlight aimed at
the stairs.

“Mommy.”

Partway
down the stairs stood Sam, wearing only his super hero underwear, Blankie draped
over his shoulder.

“Honey,
it’s early.” Walking over to him, she said, “Why don’t we climb back in bed for
a little while.”

Sam
nodded his head and turned to lead the way. Kelly began to follow him, but
stopped when she heard a new noise. It sounded nothing like the pounding at
the door and as she listened intently she could tell it did not even originate
from there. This was coming from somewhere near the back of the house and
sounded more like scraping.

“Go
ahead and climb back in bed, Mommy will be right there sweetie.”

She
continued to watch him climb the stairs while listening intently, trying to pinpoint
the source. Slowly walking down the hall, light shining into the darkness, she
decided the noise was coming from one of the two back rooms. It was either the
office or the laundry room, both of which she had previously checked for an
intruder.

Hesitating,
she wondered about returning to the bedroom to grab the shotgun, feeling a
weapon would be very comforting about now. Thinking for a moment, she decided
having found nothing on her initial sweep of the downstairs, she would continue
along the hall.

The
noise reminded her of cats scratching at wood to sharpen their claws. Tearing
and scraping that could be felt at the base of a person’s neck. The scraping
got louder as she neared the doorways. Before she even reached the opening, she
knew the noise was coming from the office and not because of the sound, but
instead the flickering light on the floor.

Turning
into the office, she immediately saw the wooden shutters shaking and something
wedged between them. The piece of metal slid up and down, nearly touching the
glass. She was unsure if whatever was outside knew what it was doing, but even
if it did not, it was about to flip the metal hasp that held the shutters
closed. Enough of a bump and through blind luck it would have them open, and
then only the thin glass would separate her and Sam from the horror that
desperately wanted in.

Standing
in the doorway, her heart began to pound in her chest each time the metal hit
the hasp, nearly knocking it from its perch. Knowing something had to be done,
she used both arms to sweep all the paperwork that lay on the desk off onto the
floor. She slid the desk across the wood floor and tipped it up next to the
window, blocking all but the top few inches.

With
the racket caused by moving the desk, the scraping became louder, desperate.
The small room was filled with the distinctive crinkle of breaking glass. The
shutters still held, but enough force was applied to the metal to pry them
apart and hit the glass, sending shards falling to the floor behind the upturned
desk.

Before
she was able to better fortify the window, there was a sudden clatter from
somewhere toward the front of the house. Her heart raced as she spun and ran
for the living room to see what was going on.

Flashlight
in hand, she scanned the living room and saw that one set of window shutters
was rattling from something outside shoving at them. No sooner had she
determined the source of the noise, than the next set of shutters began the same
shaking and banging.

The
initial noise was stirring them into a frenzy, more desperate than ever to get
inside. They sensed something, and instinct or hunger made them
intensely focused to gain entry. Noise filled the house. Turning, she saw Sam
making his way down the stairs, tears pouring down his cheeks, terrified.

“Upstairs!
Hurry, get back upstairs!” She hollered at him.

Not
looking to see if he was listening, she slid the couch over next to one of the
windows, and using every bit of leg strength she had, tipped it up on end
against the rattling window. Without hesitating, she rushed to the love seat
and did the same to the next window over, only covering half of the opening.

The
pounding at the door was much louder now.

Grabbing
the heavy coffee table, she heaved it on top of the love seat, farther blocking
the second window. She knew these blockades would only slow them, but she didn't know what else to do.

Turning,
she saw Sam still standing part way down the stairs, a terrified look of shock
on his face. Her chest tightened and heart raced at the thought of being
overrun by the monstrosities they had looked down on the last few days. Images
of Plinky, in her skin tight t-shirt, feeding on their lifeless corpses filled
her mind.

It
couldn’t come to this, Sam deserved so much more.

Kelly
grabbed the bug-out backpacks she had laid at the bottom of the stairs and
raced up toward Sam. “Come on honey, let’s get up to the bedroom.” The two of
them sped up the stairs, headed for the bedroom and more importantly the
shotgun.

******

It
had been several days since the four of them made it back to the Unimog and
left Hood River behind. Looking back, Tom was amazed that they had run into so
few problems during those days. They saw very few undead or demented, making most
of the trip up to this point uneventful, just the way he liked it.

Between
wrecks in the way and foraging for gas, the travel had been slow going.
Frequently they had to stop and move vehicles out of their way to be able to
continue down the freeway. It was strange, there were stretches with no cars
in sight and then they would hit a section of road that was packed with
wreckage. Most of the time they were able to use the Unimog’s massive tires
and four wheel drive to go off-road, bypassing road blocks all together,
however with bridges and cement barriers, this was not always the case.

The
four of them nearly had it down to a science at this point and as Tom squinted
into the morning light, he said into the intercom, “Prep-up, wreck coming.”

Dropping
his boots off the dash, Hank pulled his binoculars up to his eyes. His
weathered face still had swollen red scratches that cracked and glistened as
his face shifted to a grimace. “Looks like maybe a dozen rides. No movement.”

The
pile of wrecked cars lay in the center of the bridge that crossed Hangman
Creek. Tom slowed about a hundred yards out, the towering buildings of Spokane
teasing him in the distance. A wide ravine dropped off steeply to the creek
below.

“Maybe
we should backtrack and skirt around the city.” Tom said.

“If
it is anything like Hood River and the Tri-cities, it will be infested.” Hank
replied.

“I
know, I’m afraid that…”

Before
he could finish, Hank said, “I’ve got movement.” He leaned forward, jaw
shifting around as if that would help him see. “Far side of the
cars…several…tough to make out but at least five people at the other end of the
bridge.”

“Infected?”
Tom asked as he slowed to a stop.

Over
the intercom, Ben said, “What’s up, we yankin’ cars?”

“Hold
for a bit, Hank spotted people and we’re assessing.”

Looking
over at Hank, Tom asked, “Whatcha got?”

Never
pulling the binoculars from his face, he replied, “Look infected. They aren’t
really getting anywhere, just shuffling about.” Hearing a noise from outside,
he set the binoculars on the dash and listened. “Hear that?”

At
first Tom shook his head, not hearing anything other than the idling engine,
but after listening intently for a few moments, a familiar noise could just be
heard in the distance. “Chopper.”

“That’s
right and unless my ears deceive me, it’s big.” Hank said.

Tom
rolled down his window and listened. The distinct
whump-whump-whump
of
a helicopter could be heard and was getting louder. Peering out the window, he
could make out the insect like form flying low just north of their position.
He reached over and grabbed the binoculars off the dash. Peering through the
glass, he said, “It’s military.” Continuing to watch, he saw the helicopter
repeatedly slow to a low hover before moving on in their direction. “It’s a
Black Hawk.” He lowered the binoculars to his lap as they both continued to
watch it approach.

“Should
we signal them?” Hank asked.

Tom
looked in his mirrors, checking the area, and then keyed the intercom. “We
have an incoming chopper, grab your guns and hop out.” Reaching over, he
grasped the M4 leaning against the seat next to Hank’s M24 rifle. “Let’s take
a look.”

Stepping
out onto the pavement, there was a slight breeze blowing across the bridge,
bringing with it the stench of death. It was a mixture of rot, decay, and
something worse, maybe sewage.

Looking
to the back of the Unimog, he saw Rachael scrunching her nose from the stench
while she scanned the area with her shotgun. Her trusty double
barrel was lost in Hood River, but Tom had helped her with a more combat
effective Mossberg 500. It was a simple weapon system that she was now very
comfortable with and treated like her newborn baby.

Keeping
his M4 shouldered, Tom walked to the front of the Unimog and looked up at the
Black Hawk and then over to Hank. Leaning against the hood, he peered through
his large rifle scope toward the end of the bridge. Tom looked back up and
watched as the helicopter approached, nearly to the bridge. He raised one hand
over his head and began a slow wave, hoping they would recognize him as alive
and normal.

The
Black Hawk slowed to a hover directly over the infected, the loud
whump
of rotors drowning out the Unimog’s idling engine. After sitting for a few
seconds, it continued along the creek, occasionally stopping briefly before
flying on.

Tom
looked over to see Hank talking to him, but the words were drowned out by the
engine’s noise. Walking over next to him, he said, “What?”

Hank
shrugged his shoulders and said, “Crash Hawk had a couple pilots and at least
four Joes in the cargo hold. Recon maybe.”

“I
agree, definitely either looking for something or surveying the status of
things. Good news is at least some of the military must be functional.”

“Maybe.”

Tom
wondered what he meant by maybe, but decided not to go down that road right
now. Looking over, he saw Rachael and Ben coming up next to him. Both of them
had confused looks on their faces.

“What
the hell was that…thought you said all the military would be gone?” Ben
shouted over the idling engine.

The
group ignored him, knowing from the past few days that any argument was a waste
of breath. Tom had quickly learned that Ben found fault in everyone but
himself and reveled in confrontation. He was the co-worker that sucked the fun
out of a happy, laughing lunchroom just by walking in.

Hearing
growls from somewhere in the trees just off the bank, Tom slapped the hood a
couple times and said, “Let’s roll.”

“We
movin these?” Ben asked while pointing over to the pile of cars.

“No,
city’s a death trap, we’ll skirt around.” Tom replied, looking hard at Ben,
ready for a confrontation. When none came, he turned back to the cab.

After
maneuvering the large Unimog back the other direction, Tom turned to Hank and
said, “What are your thoughts on the helo?”