The Demented Z (Book 1):The Demented (12 page)

Turning
back to the other end of the street, he was startled to see forms materializing
out of the darkness, plodding into the glow centered on the intersection. They
continued their slow procession into the light. Several more appeared. Unlike
the lone figure, these staggered through the light and back into the darkness
on their way down the street that led right past him and the others. Tom
remained frozen in his position, not wanting to attract their attention.

Watching
in horror, they continued to appear out of the darkness, their numbers steadily
growing. Knowing there were too many to fight, he discretely signaled for the
group to hunch down. Very slowly, he crouched down behind the shrub. As they
approached the street in front of Tom, his heart raced. His knuckles ached as
they tightened around the knife’s handle. He felt like a deer caught out in
the open, the protection of the forest impossibly distant.

The
shuffling of their shoes on the pavement grated on his ears as the first of
them staggered by, directly in front of them. Even in the darkness he could
tell they were all types of people – old, young, male and female. He saw kids
in boarder clothes and men in business suits. The infection did not
discriminate. Terror gripped him when occasionally one would turn and look
their way, only to turn back and continue their macabre parade. Some would
slow to peer into the windows of parked cars, hesitating only briefly.

From
time to time, one of them would let out a shallow moan, and then others would
follow suit. The hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention. It
reminded Tom of listening to Elk bugle back and forth, the chatter of animals
with a sinister twist.

The
lone figure under the street lamp, turned at their approach. More moans, or
maybe grunts, and then the figure joined their numbers and the entire group
shuffled into the darkness farther down the street. It was like herd
mentality, building numbers.

Tom
turned back to those behind him and saw only petrified terror in their eyes.

Seeing
no more infected, Tom slowly stood. A stench hung in the air. The smell of feces,
urine, and spoiled meat stung his nostrils, nearly making him gag. He heard
someone retching from behind him, quiet and muffled.

The
street was now void of movement. A variety of cars could be seen, some in the
street, some in driveways, and some wrecked in people’s yards. The destruction
was nowhere near the level they had experienced in the city, but it was still
staggering. Tom was disappointed to see that none of the vehicles within sight
ran on diesel.

Based
on the parade seeming to recruit members as it moved along, Tom signaled to
move out in the direction the infected had come from. Remaining in a half
crouch, he sped through the open space to the corner of the next house. Glancing
back, he made sure the group was following before creeping in front of the
house.

They
continued to leap frog past the houses, pausing to listen for threats and scan
the area for diesel trucks. Only silence surrounded them, even the crickets
had seemingly hunkered down for the night.

At
the end of the street where they would need to decide whether to go left or
right at the “T,” Tom hunched down in front of the last house, waiting.
Looking back, he saw Danny and Ben bringing up the rear, just leaving the cover
of the previous house. Just as he was turning back around, there was a loud
boom from over his shoulder. His heart pounded in his chest as he spun to
track the source of the noise.

More
booms as the door to the nearest house shook, followed by a howl of rage. In
the half moon window, Tom could see a partial face peering out through the
darkness, his eyes gleaning from the street lamp's glow. Tom took several
rapid steps back, gaining distance from the porch as the door continued to
shake with each boom. In the calm of night it sounded like shotguns going off.

He
looked back and saw that Danny had stopped and was beginning to back pedal to
the safety of the previous house. Ben stood frozen at the midway point between
the houses, undecided of what to do. Hank and Rachael stepped out onto the
sidewalk right beside Tom.

The
clang of metal on metal sounded from somewhere behind the two houses, it was
the familiar sound of a chain link fence.

A
distant shriek from the opposite direction followed.

Not
realizing he was still walking backwards, Tom stepped off the curb, bumping up
against a parked car. He heard Rachael cry out to his right, followed by a
grunt as she fell to the pavement. Turning, he saw she had stumbled off the
curb, and Hank had dropped the gas cans, and was helping her back to her feet.

An
angry howl split the night air.

Tom
spun around to see several demented rushing out of the darkness between the two
houses. Their reckless speed was terrifying. He instinctively reached behind
his back for his M4 before realizing he only had his knife. With the comfort
of a rifle gone, panic welled up inside him.

Like
disturbed fruit flies, the group scattered in all directions. Hank and Rachael
sprinted across the street, seeking refuge on the other side. Danny had
already disappeared into the darkness between houses. Caught in the open space that lied
directly in the dementeds’ path, Ben turned and raced after Rachael’s fading
form.

Tom,
knowing this was going to turn into a blood bath, yelled as loud as he could,
“Hey!”

Three
of the demented slowed and looked his way. Seeing a stationary target, they
immediately changed course and raced toward Tom, growling with anticipation.

Before
turning to run he counted at least four that did not take the bait and were still
chasing Ben.

Rather
than lead more infected in the direction of Rachael and the others, Tom instead
angled across the front lawn, racing along the far side of the corner house.
The demented screamed out when they saw their quarry trying to get away. They
were so close, Tom could hear their footfalls as they gave chase. Utilizing the
adrenaline coursing through his veins, he pushed aside the panic and focused on
long steady strides.

Flashing
in his mind,
would they tire?

The
night air was filled with noise. Shrieks, howls, and screams could be heard in
every direction. Racing through intersections, Tom could see movement down the
streets, likely some of the sources of noise.

Several
blocks later, his lungs were on fire and the muscles in his legs were tight,
filled with burning pain. He knew he could not last much longer. The demented
had not slowed a bit and were nearly right on top of him.

Veering
to his right, he saw a broken down covered porch, the base surrounded by lattice
work. Portions of the wooden slats were cracked and broken out, creating
larger holes into the blackness below. Aiming for one of the largest holes,
about the size of a volleyball, Tom held his knife out in front of him and
dove, hoping there was not a deck support on the other side.

With
loud cracking, the lattice snapped and gave way to the impact. Pain shot the
length of Tom’s torso as the sharp edges ripped into his flesh. Landing with a
grunt, halfway in, he began army crawling farther into the darkness. The musty
smell of dirt, combined with the pungent aroma of cat feces, filled his
nostrils, making it difficult to breathe.

Before
getting all the way under the porch, one of the demented grabbed at his exposed
legs, growling with hate. More hands gripped at his legs, pulling him
backwards. Kicking at them and desperately clawing at the dirt, he tried to
keep from being dragged back out into the open. Losing ground, he flipped onto
his back and reached out for one of the large supports. Skidding across the
dirt, he was just able to catch the corner of the wood with his fingertips. His
finger shook with strain. Gritting his teeth trying to maintain his hold, Tom
began kicking at the hands that pulled his legs.

The
demented growled and continued to claw at him, hungry to destroy their prey.

His
fingers continued to slip, nearly to the edge of the wood when he finally got
one leg free and was able to take a full kick at those that grasped his other
leg. Making solid contact, both of his legs came free and he scooted on his
back, sucking his legs inside the hole. Even through the dust cloud that
filled the confined space, Tom could see one of the demented drop to the ground
and begin crawling in after him, snarling, teeth bared. Pulling one of his
legs up, he kicked out as hard as he could, making direct contact with the
demented’s face. While the demented was reeling from the blow, Tom took
advantage and spun around, knife in hand. With all of his might, he jammed the
blade directly into its puffy, red eye socket.

The
demented slumped to the ground, revealing two more crawling in over the top of
his body. Snarling. Hatred filled.

Pulling
his blade free, Tom slashed out at the nearest one, ripping open one of his
cheeks. Tongue hanging out the side of his face, he continued his pursuit. Tom
continued to slash at his face, blood spilling out as he ripped open flesh.
Once the demented got close enough, he switch to a jabbing motion and plunged
the knife into the bloody mess. Before he could pull the blade free, the third
demented, a mustached man, ripped the body out of the way, pulling the knife out
of Tom’s hand.

In
the narrow space, with no weapon, Tom began crawling backwards away from
Mustache. With a loud growl, Mustache rushed toward him. Thick dust clung and
swirled in the air. The two men clashed in the middle, both grunting with effort.
This was a gritty battle to the death. They ripped, clawed, bit and tore at
each other. Their bodies whirled in the dust, going at each other like
ravenous wolves.

Rolling
in the dirt, Tom was able to get Mustache pinned up against one of the large
wooden supports, his arms wedged between the post and his own chest. The
demented’s other arm continued to swing wildly. Tom used his forearm to hold
Mustache in place while using his other fist to repeatedly pound him in the
back of the skull, each punch shooting pain through his knuckles. As the fight
began to drain out of Mustache, Tom threw in a few final punches, and then
quickly rolled toward the dead bodies. Yanking his knife free, he spun back
around and found Mustache was just turning back over, looking his way. Not
allowing him time to regain his senses, Tom lunged at him and slammed the blade
deep into his skull.

Rolling
onto his back, Tom tried to catch his breath. Not getting enough oxygen, he
began to hyperventilate, choking on the dust. He continued to roll away from
Mustache until he ran up against the lattice, stuffing his mouth in one of the
holes, he sucked in the fresh night air.

Tom
lay there, wishing he could climb into a cozy bed somewhere, but knowing by the
sounds of pandemonium surrounding him, that he was in for a long night.

After
the initial attack, Hank and Rachael raced across the street, between several
houses, and now found themselves behind a locked door in someone’s shop. There
were at least two demented pounding on the door from outside. On top of that,
neither of them had any idea what had happened to the others. During their
sprint through the yards, they heard Ben racing behind them, but he must have
changed direction at some point. Arriving at an unlocked shop, they saw only
the two demented behind them before slamming and locking the metal door.

They
both backed away from the door as the pounding continued. Realizing at the
same time that they were in a dark shop with unknown occupants, they both spun
around, surveying the interior. It was nearly pitch black, with only a small
window on the far side letting in the meager light of a distant street lamp.
Only shapes could be made out.

Rachael
closed her eyes for a ten count and then re-opened them, hoping to gain some
night vision. The darkness seemed even thicker, somehow closing in on her.
She reached out for a light switch, but could not find one.
Panic began to consume her, believing something was waiting in the blackness
about to attack, she was having a hard time breathing. Her heart was racing.
Terror gripped her as she reached out for the door, needing to leave the dark
confines of the shop. Knowing only death waited outside the door, she still
could not stop her hand from grasping the deadbolt's handle.

A
steadying hand rested on her shoulder, pulling her back from the brink. It
somehow grounded her, a link to the tangible. Hank whispered into her ear,
“Relax…if there was something in here with us, we would know it by now. Just
relax, were gonna be alright.”

Rachael
did not know if Hank was aware of just how close she was to completely losing
it, but his timing was perfect.

Hank
worked his way farther into the shop using his peripheral vision, the
advantages were slight, but used properly a difference maker. He could just
make out a work bench next to him, piled with tools and gadgets. Looking
through the items and occasionally reaching out to feel some of them, Hank
continued to shuffle along the counter. Nearing the end of the long counter, he
finally found what he was looking for.

With
a click, a welcome beam of light split the darkness, giving a narrow view of the
shop's contents. A trailered boat sat in the center, surrounded by a long
counter on one side and sets of cupboards mounted to the far wall.

Even
with the loud pounding at the door, Rachael was able to breathe a sigh of
relief, the flashlight giving her more comfort than she ever thought a
flashlight could.

“Let’s
stick with just the flashlight. I’m not sure if having all the lights on will
draw more of them.” Hank said.

“Okay.”
She said.

Hank
found another flashlight on the counter and handed it to Rachael. “Take a look
around. Let’s see what we can find.”

Clicking
on the flashlight, she shined the beam toward the man door. There was the light
switch, right between the small door and the large roll-up door. How had she
missed it she wondered to herself? If Hank was right, then maybe it was a good
thing she could not find it, although her panic had nearly killed them both.

Hank
whispered, “Why a boat? Couldn’t we get a truck or a Humvee…maybe a tank?”
Mumbling to himself, he went on, “Stupid-ass boat…fat lot of good that does us,
stinking city rats.” His light bounced around the far end of the shop as he
continued to look through its contents.

Rachael
moved past the boat to the other side of the shop and began looking through the
cupboards. Going through them one by one, she was mostly finding various home
maintenance items.

From
somewhere behind the boat, Hank said, “You finding anything over there?”

“We
could paint them to death.”

“Hey,
hey, hey. Come look at this.” Hank said.

Squeezing
past the side of the boat, she found Hank standing at the back, peeking under a
canvas tarp.

Turning
to her, he said, “Help me with this tarp.”

The
two of them lifted the tarp off and tossed it up over the boat out of the way.
Previously hidden, was an orange and black KLM dirt bike.

“Might
just be our ticket out of here.” Hank said with a grin.

Rachael
looked skeptical. “I’m not so sure I want to be sitting on that thing…with
those things running around in the night.” She said while pointing to the
door.

Nodding
his head, Hank walked past her, shining his flashlight beam on the cupboards and
said, “Let’s see what other goodies we can find in here.”

******

Pushing
bodies out of the way, Tom crawled out from under the run down porch, peering
into the night, looking for more infected. No one could be seen in the
darkness, but their sounds filled the town. Listening intently, it almost
sounded like they were communicating. Shrieks and howls followed one another
in all directions. Worried about the fate of the others, he stood and snuck
into the shadows.

Working
his way between the rows of houses, he kept a lookout for any of the others,
only seeing infected shuffling through the streets. Without more light, he
could have passed right by any of his friends hidden away from harm and never
known it. Nearing the house they all had scattered from, he thought about
shouting out to them, but quickly dismissed the idea, knowing it would draw
more of the infected.

A
couple houses farther down the street, Tom could make out a large group of
infected huddled around something. From where he sat hunched behind a set of
garbage cans, he could hear their snarling. He continued to watch the infected,
knowing they likely surrounded a member of his group, and if so, it was already
too late.

Sinking back into the shadows, Tom crept away from the garbage cans and decided
on finding another route. Circling his way around several houses, he was able
to get to the next street over and continue on the path he last saw Hank,
Rachael, and Ben.

While
hiding behind a small white picket fence, waiting for a small group of slow
moving infected to stagger by, Tom saw what they had initially been looking
for. Four houses down, just off the street, sat a white truck. This was a huge
truck, with room for a whole crew of construction workers and a massive load of
building supplies in the back. Most importantly of all, it ran on diesel.

The
infected continued to slowly walk down the street, shuffling their feet as they
went. From time to time a loud shriek could be heard in the night and
occasionally one of them would turn his head, sniff at the air, and seem to
reply with a guttural grunt. It reminded Tom of the sound deer made when they
were warning of prey, almost a nasal huff.

Having
no idea where the rest of his group might be or if they were even alive, Tom
decided to move on the truck and figure the rest out later.

Stalking
along the low fence, the night suddenly erupted in gunfire. This was not the
sound of a few pistols going off, but instead full-on, heavy arms fire. It
sounded far off, likely at least several blocks away, but even from this
distance, it filled the night, drowning out everything else.

Hunching
down behind the wood fence, Tom heard a rattle from the chain link fence that
ran between the houses. Looking between the pickets, Tom saw movement. Next
was the smell, a mixture of feces and rotting meat. Nearly overpowering, the
smell as bad as anything he could have imagined. He covered his mouth,
hoping to keep from throwing up while he watched legs shuffling past
the fence.

Occasionally
bumping up against the white pickets, they continued to walk along the fence
line in the direction of the gunfire.

The
relentless gunfire slowed to sporadic shots. Unintelligible shouting could be
heard.

The
sounds of gunfire were blotted out by chaotic shrieks from infected spread out
all over the town. The slow moving procession on the other side of the fence
moaned loudly in response.

Kneeling
in the grass, Tom continued to watch the undead shuffle past, some of their
heads just visible above the fence. All of them that he could see had
disheveled hair, often caked in dried blood. If any of them noticed him, he would surely be overwhelmed.

In
the distance, more gunfire could be heard, followed by the roar of an engine
coming to life. At least one of them had an automatic weapon, likely an AK-47
based on the familiar
cack-cack-cack
.

The
last of the undead had made it past the fence, leaving only a terrible stench
behind. Tom continued to peer between the pickets for several minutes before
slowly standing. Despite the cacophony of noise erupting all over town, there
was no movement in sight.

Tom
hopped up and over the fence. Standing in the trampled grass, he eyed the
truck. Moths fluttered in and out of the glow of a street lamp one house
away. The truck cast a long shadow on the lawn in front of a two story split
level home that was typical of the suburban landscape. Seeing no movement, he
began creeping in front of the next house, staying low in the shadows.

In
the distance the gunfire ceased, replaced by squealing tires and the roar of an
engine.

Scanning
the darkness and seeing no movement, he crouched low and made for the next
house. Slowing, he stopped by a low shrub that surrounded the front porch.

The
car engine continued to get louder, driving in his direction. Looking down the
street, Tom could see the flash of bouncing headlights on the pavement of the
intersection. Wondering if maybe it could be someone from his group, he rushed
through the next yard and crouched down next to the porch, one house from the
intersection. A pair of bright headlights were growing as they sped his way.
Their cool blue tint bouncing wildly as the vehicle continued to accelerate
down the street.

Having
to make a split second decision, Tom stood and waved his arms above his head.
Without slowing, a black SUV went roaring through the intersection. A streak
of red from the taillights and it was gone. Like thunder in the distance, it
faded to a quiet rumble, likely leaving town on the old highway.

Movement
in the darkness down the street reminded him that the SUV would have followers,
chasing the noise. Moving quickly, he ran at a half-crouch across the street,
ducking in behind the large truck. Checking the driver's side door, he found it
unlocked and climbed inside. Before closing the door fully, he could hear
angered growls from outside.

Hunching
down and peering out the passenger window, he saw several demented racing across
the pavement in a futile attempt to catch the SUV. Even before their growls
faded into the distance, the moans of the undead echoed through the night. The
ever increasing parade of slow moving shamblers would be showing up at any
moment.

Tom
frantically searched the truck for keys, even trying the sun visors, which
always worked in the movies. No luck. He hopped out of the truck and made for
the front door of the house.

Along
with the loud moaning, the gravely sounds of shuffling feet could be heard from
all around the house. The parade leaders were just about to start oozing out
between houses.

Tom
twisted the door handle and rushed inside, thanking a higher power that it was
not locked.

Immediately
the stench of feces and urine smacked him in the face. The dark interior
stared back at him, haunting and dangerous. Heart pounding, Tom held his knife
out in front of him while scanning the interior for threats.

Shadows
shifted across the carpet and sofa in the living space, startling Tom before he
realized it was coming from outside. Looking through the windows, he could just
make out the silhouettes of the undead as they marched past, the faint light
from down the street casting eerie shadows throughout the interior.

Hearing
a noise from somewhere farther in the house, he spun around, trying to pinpoint
its source. Focusing into the darkness, there was nothing, no movement, and no
monsters staring back at him. Waiting motionless, he listened, but heard only
the muffled moans of those outside.

Turning
back to the entrance, he quickly glanced around, looking for a key rack, but
found only a set of coat hooks and light switches. Even though some of the
houses in the neighborhood still had lights on, he really hoped to avoid
broadcasting his activities.

Sweeping
through the downstairs in the dark, he had found the house was in total
disarray, garbage and moldy food lay all about. Dining room chairs had been
toppled and one lay broken in front of a shattered china cabinet. The stench
of feces permeated the air, but the source was nowhere to be found. Neither
were the truck keys.

Standing
at the base of the stairs, staring up into the deep blackness, he hesitated,
debating if he should move on and find a different truck. Spurred on by the
soft groans from just outside the house, he decided to explore the second
floor. The inky blackness was far too dark to see anything, so taking a risk,
he flicked the light switch on at the bottom of the stairs. A comforting light
filled the stairway. Using his left hand to shade his eyes from the bright
glow, he held the knife out in front of him and began his ascent, the carpeted
stairs creaking under his weight.

Reaching
the top of the stairs, he found a narrow hallway with family portraits adorning
the walls. Not wanting to see the faces of those that lived here, he instead
eyed the closest door, which sat closed like all the others. It contained no
markings or any indication of what lay inside.