The Demented Z (Book 1):The Demented (16 page)

Hank
sat staring forward. After several minutes, Tom was beginning to wonder if the
old timer had heard him, then he finally responded. “I’m not sure they’re on
our side.”

“What
makes you say that?” Tom asked as he drove up the ramp for Highway 2, ignoring
the wrong way signs. The overpass gave an amazing view of the piled up cars,
their owners having tried to escape the city. Westbound lanes were packed with
wrecked cars, some with undead trapped inside. There were others staggering
amongst the wreckage.

“They
had diggies on but no weapons. They were just looking out the sides. One
looked right at me and had no interest in us.” Wrapping his knuckles against
the window, he finished, “I know this is going to sound strange…but this reminds
me of when FEMA comes rolling in days after a disaster to survey the damage.”

“Like
checking on things, just seeing what state things are in.”

“Bingo.”

Tom
continued to think on this while watching for a turn that would take them
through the back roads that made their way around Spokane. Swerving through the
mounting piles of cars that had tried to make their way to the airport, he found
a turn that led north. He had only been out this way a couple of times, but
figured as long as he was headed north they would be good.

Making
their way through the turns, they began to get into rocky terrain surrounded by
large Ponderosa pine trees. The trees made Tom feel like he was finally
nearing home.
Kelly and Sam are all right, they will be there, hunkered
down, waiting for him. They had to be
. His chest tightened and stomach
churned just thinking about them.

After
a long sweeping corner, they came up on a bridge, narrow and empty. There were
several cars on the far side, parked off the edge of the road. Near the
entrance to the bridge sat a large bread delivery truck. It was parked alongside the
river, just off the road.

Tom
slowed to a stop and sat idling.

“Yeah,
looks suspicious.” Hank said, sensing Tom’s reluctance.

Hank
grabbed the binoculars off the dash and began scanning the area. “No movement
around the Bread Mobile.” He shifted the binoculars up, looking over the other
end of the bridge for several seconds. “I've got nothing on the other side.
Cars and trucks are parked, don’t appear wrecked. No movement.”

“Feels
like an ambush.”

“Yip…I’m
feeling mega-creepy tingles. Find another crossing?” Hank asked.

Tom
sat thinking for a moment and then keyed the intercom. “Hey guys, we’re
crossing a bridge…possible ambush. Be ready.” He turned over to Hank and
said, “Ready?”

Hank
grinned, “Hooah.”

“You
are crazy, you know that.”

The
engine rumbled as they accelerated onto the bridge. Tom could tell the bridge
was narrow, but now that they were on it in the large Unimog, it seemed
downright tiny.

“I’ve
got movement.” Hank said as someone sat up inside a truck on the far side and
several people stood from behind the cars. One of the trucks rumbled to life
and pulled out, blocking the far side of the bridge. “Oh boy, crapstorm.”

Before
even looking in his mirror, Tom knew the bread truck would be rolling in behind
them, blocking the rear. A quick glance confirmed his thoughts. Looking
forward, he saw several people holding rifles pointed in their direction. One
of them, a large man wearing jeans and tan t-shirt, stepped out next to the
rear of the truck. He held an AR15, pointed toward the sky.

Tom
was amazed at how fast society collapsed to an “every man for himself"
mentality in disasters. His mind flashed back to images of anarchy after
hurricane Katrina. Chaos and lawlessness were opportunity for those that
preyed on the weak.

Not me.

“Hang
on.” Tom said before stomping on the gas. The Unimog was not made for speed,
but it was several tons of steel barreling down the road. Tan shirt guy
recognized this and raced off the bridge to the relative safety of the
sidewalk. Over the rumble of the engine, Tom could hear the cracks of rifle
fire. There were several loud tangs as bullets hit metal, but the shots
quickly died away as the attackers sprinted for cover, not liking their odds in
this game of chicken.

Nearing
the end of the bridge, Tom was better able to get a look at those that wished to
trap them. There were eight of them, plus however many set to block any
retreat. They had the appearance of a rag tag group of misfits thrown together
and controlled by the older man in the tan shirt. Based on the wide range of
weapons and variety of clothing styles, Tom guessed they banded together solely
on necessity and the ability to outnumber the weak.

Directly
in front of their path were two trucks that had pulled nose to nose in hopes of
blocking the Unimog in. With an incredible boom, the Unimog slammed head on
into the joint of the two vehicles, sending them skidding out of the way.
There was a jolt as the Unimog parted the trucks, sending shards of metal and
glass flying through the air. The mog squeezed between the trucks, creating an
ear piercing shriek of metal on metal.

As
quickly as they hit the trucks they were through and out the other side of the
make shift road block. The sounds of weapon fire returned. Thick smoke began
to pour from the sides of the engine compartment.

Ahead,
the road split into a ‘T’. They were traveling fast. Tom attempted to feather
the brakes and crank the steering wheel to the left, swinging wide. The chirp
of squealing tires filled the air. More bullets slammed into the metal sides
as they skidded around the corner. Loud hissing came from somewhere under the
hood.

Hank
looked in his mirror and shouted, “They’re comin’. Two cars.”

Tom
hammered back down on the accelerator. The engine groaned with the demand,
like a stubborn mule, but with a shudder the Unimog gained speed.

Over
the intercom came Rachael’s voice, desperate and scared. “We have
smoke…vents…it’s pouring out of the vents.”

Keying
the intercom, Tom shouted back, “Grab the packs and whatever weapons you can,
we’re gonna have to find a stop. Two on our tail, be ready.”

Hank
reached over, grabbing his M24.

Tom
scanned the sides of the road ahead, but found only rocky outcroppings and
large pine trees. Glancing in his mirror, he saw the two cars right behind
them, one of the passengers firing a pistol out the window. Knowing how hard
it was to shoot out of a moving vehicle, Tom was not too worried.

Rounding
the next corner, Tom finally saw what he was looking for. Just off the road sat
a two story white house with a matching picket fence surrounding it. Without
hesitation, he veered the Unimog off the pavement, blowing apart a huge section
of fence. Foot still on the gas, he shouted into the intercom, “Hold on!”
just before they slammed directly into the front of the house.

The
impact was more intense than any of them could have imagined. In a brilliant
flash, wood and debris exploded inward, a white cloud of particles filling the
view. Tom recoiled as the window disintegrated into thousands of glittering
shards of glass, stinging his exposed skin. The Unimog came to an abrupt stop
when it slammed into a central stairway that led to the upper floor. Smoke and
a cloud of particles blocked the morning sunlight, shrouding the cab in
darkness.

After
shutting off the rumbling engine, a creepy silence filled the interior,
interrupted only by occasional creaks and groans from the stressed structure.
Thick smoke continued to billow out from under the crumpled hood. The near
silence was broken by the hum of car engines.

Looking
over at Hank, he said, “We gotta move.”

Thick
blood oozed from a gash in Hank’s forehead. Hank turned and reached back down
for his rifle. The muscles in his arm were not listening properly to his brain
and continually missed the rifle, before finally awkwardly grasping the barrel.

Grabbing
his M4, Tom pounded at the crumpled door to get the twisted metal open. The
hinges groaned reluctantly, opening half way before binding up. Squeezing
through the opening, he squinted in the darkness, trying to see back through the
opening. Slivers of light filtered in through the haze.

The
sound of slamming car doors and shouts could be heard from somewhere outside.

Raising
his M4 to his shoulder, he started slowly working toward the rear of the Unimog
and the faint light. Smoke continued to billow out from the crippled vehicle,
stinging his eyes and blocking his vision. Voices filtered in, interrupted by
occasional groans from sagging beams. Debris continued to fall to the ground
with dull thuds.

Gunfire erupted from
outside. The intensity caused Tom to stagger back several
steps.

“Rachael! Ben!” He
shouted.

Nothing.

The unmistakable zing of
a bullet flew inches from his head.
Diving and rolling to the side he got away from the Unimog and hopefully any
stray shots.

From somewhere inside the
Unimog’s camper came the crack of return fire. The shots were erratic,
sounding of panic.

Racing through the smoke
and darkness, Tom looked for the front door. Not seeing well, he ran head first
into the small half circle window that sat at the top of the door.

His throat and lungs
burned from the acrid smoke.

Pulling the door open, Tom
was finally able to suck in a breath of sweet, fresh air. His dark-accustomed
eyes stung from the sudden bright light. Crouching low to make a small target
while his eyes adjusted, he waited a few beats, squinting into the brightness.
The inset entranceway was set back far enough to block his view of both cars
and the assailants.

The cracks of gunfire
continued out front.

Easing up next to a large
shrub at the corner of the entryway, Tom leaned out, sighting through the small
3x red-dot scope mounted to his M4. The two mid-sized cars were pulled nose
to nose, parallel to the house. He quickly counted five attackers,
all of them narrowly focused on the gunfight in
front of them. They were making one of the biggest mistakes in a firefight –
not watching their flanks.

And it was time to make
them pay.

Tom hesitated for a
moment, not liking that these were neither demented nor undead. They were
clearly enemy combatants and that was enough. He centered the red dot on the
head of a man that stood firing an AK47 and pulled the trigger. The side of
his face disappeared in a pink mist. Everyone was so focused that none of them
noticed the shot.

Before
making this first shot, he had decided on
the order of his targets. A large man holding a hunting rifle was sighting
through a scope, calmly waiting for a good shot. Tom pulled the trigger again,
dropping the rifleman.

An overweight woman
firing a small pistol turned to see the rifleman drop
to the ground, a look of shock on her face. Beginning to look up Tom’s way, she
opened her mouth to shout a warning, but was not quick enough. Squeezing the
trigger again silenced her before any alarm could be raised.

The remaining two must
have noticed something was amiss, because both of them stopped firing and
looked around, finding several teammates out of commission. The furthest one
swung open his car door, climbing in. Self-preservation had overcome his will
to fight.

Dropping flat to the
ground, the nearest man, more of a kid, slid right in under the car and began
reloading his pistol.

Behind him, the other
car’s engine roared to life. With a loud rumble, its tires spun on the lawn,
looking for grip. Finally catching enough ground, it began to back away,
throwing dirt onto the hood of the car in front of it.

Tom raised his rifle to
get the dot centered in the driver’s side windshield. Glare from the sun made
it difficult to see through the glass. Tom squeezed the trigger in a
quick three round burst, punching holes in the glass, but not slowing the car’s
escape.

Re-focusing his attention,
he scanned back down to the remaining car and assailant. He lay, unmoving,
below the car.

Tom shouted, “Throw out
your pistol!” No movement. “Throw it out or I’ll light you up!” He shouted.

After a few seconds of
hesitation, a pistol flew out from under the car, landing in the lawn. “Don’t
shoot.” Came a weak voice.

Scanning all around the
front yard, Tom saw no threats other than the second car that was now speeding
back in the direction they came. “Moving!” He yelled before standing and
working his way around the shrub toward the last attacker. Keeping his rifle
on target, he worked heel-to-toe toward him. “Don’t move.” He shouted.

Coming around the front
of the car, he saw a terrified face looking up at him. The kid couldn’t have
been older than fifteen, not even old enough to drive, but was out here trying
to gun people down.

“Clear! Hank, Ben,
Rachael, all clear.” Tom shouted. Keeping his rifle trained on the kid, he
said, “Slide out…real slow.” While watching the kid ease his way out from
under the car, he shouted toward the Unimog,
“What do we got guys? Talk to me.”

He heard Hank’s voice,
“Ben’s hit…Rachael’s down.” After a few seconds, “She’s breathing.”

Tom could hear the crackle
of fire. Glancing up, he saw thick black smoke rolling out of the opening they
created.

It would be easy to shoot
the kid and move on, no longer having to worry about what trouble he might
cause, but instead Tom said, “Get up.” Keeping the rifle on him, he back
stepped to the discarded pistol and scooped it up. Tucking it in his pants, he
motioned the kid toward the house. Following
him around the car, Tom saw Hank carrying Rachael over his shoulder through the
large opening. Behind them fire leapt up the walls in front of the Unimog, the
entire hood and cab engulfed in flames.