“I see some gas cans in the back corner there, can you get to them?” Tom asked while pointing to the far corner. “I found a hatchet and a couple baseball bats.”
“Not quite an M4." Hank said while he started climbing over boxes trying to reach the corner. Once there, he lifted the two cans and said, “Empty.”
“I see a garden hose over here.” Tom said. Using a knife he cut a section of the hose. “Here we go.”
Returning to the darkness of the living room, they found the others huddled around a burning candle on the coffee table, surveying their gathered items. Hank and Tom added the items they found in the garage to the inventory. Looking over the items, in addition to the garage items, they had gathered a little food, a couple water bottles, and a collection of knives.
Rummaging through the pile of knives, Hank said, “Why couldn’t we have stayed in a golfer’s house or better yet a hunter's?”
“The knives work well on the demented, but when using them on the undead, you have to make sure to go for the head. Seems to be the only way to finish them.” Tom added.
Rachael walked over and carefully peered out the blinds. “It’s getting fairly dark, I’d say another half hour and it'll be as dark as it's going to get.” Even in the darkness, she could see a few dark forms shifting around. “Still a few out there.”
Pointing to the pile, Tom Said, “Anyone have weapon preferences?”
Danny immediately grabbed one of the baseball bats. “I don’t want those things near me.”
Tom nodded. “Rachael, why don’t you grab a bat as well? I’ll take my Kabar, I’m comfortable with it.” He reached down and picked his knife out of the pile, noticing the black blade was shiny clean. It was covered in gore last he had seen it.
Ben lifted the hatchet off the table, flicking it around in his hands, testing its weight. “I’m good with this.”
Hank reached down and scooped up both his knife and a large meat cleaver, eyeing them like old friends.
Ben began tucking the hatchet into his belt. “Why don’t we go house to house until we can find one with some real weapons? Guns.”
Nodding his head, Tom said, “I’ve been thinking on that as well. I’m a little worried that houses are ticking time bombs. Any infected inside that can’t figure out a door knob are just waiting in there and we wouldn’t know until we went inside. We probably should minimize entries, only going in if absolutely necessary.”
They all nodded their heads in agreement.
“What’s the plan then?” Ben asked.
Tom sat down on the edge of the couch, resting his elbows on his thighs. “Anyone know how to hot-wire cars?” When everyone shook their head, he continued, “Well, I don’t know about you guys, but I don’t want to pack full gas cans all the way to the mog. So let’s go find a diesel truck. If there are no keys, we go in the house and find them.” When no one said anything, he went on, “We load up, drive to the mog, and siphon enough fuel to get us to a station.”
“Quite the plan, nothin’s gonna go wrong with that.” Ben said sarcastically.
Rachael stepped over. “If you have a better one then let’s hear it.”
Nobody said anything.
Fifteen minutes later, Tom and Ben were shouldering their backpacks, and the group stood near the door to the garage. They all stood in silence, knowing full well this could be the end. This was an unforgiving world and they were all about to roll the dice. Hank, holding a gas can in each hand, looked at Tom and nodded. Going through the garage, they opened a door that led to the backyard, the darkness and cool night air enveloping them. The chatter of crickets could be heard in the distance.
Without a moon in the sky, the black of night was suffocating, almost a presence pushing in on them. Tom moved the group to the back corner of the house and raised his hand to get the group to stop, waiting for everyone’s eyes to adjust. Looking through the backyard and out to the street that lay beyond the next row of houses, Tom could just make out the faint yellow glow of street lights.
Leading the group, Tom stalked out through the overgrown grass, scanning to the sides for any movement. The quiet noises of night were drowned out by the swishing of five pairs of feet through the dry grass. Approaching a chain link fence separating the properties, Tom placed both hands on top and leapt over, the fence rattling loudly against the metal posts. The sound echoed off the nearby houses. Crouching down on the other side, he quickly swept the darkness for threats. An empty metal garbage can clanged on pavement somewhere in the distance. No movement.
Tom pressed his butt up against the fence, holding the links tight to the post and waved the others over. Waiting for everyone, he continued to watch for anything that might have heard the racket. One at a time with Ben’s assistance, they climbed up and over the fence.
Motioning for the group to hold their position, Tom turned and moved up next to the wall of the nearest house, pressing his back to the siding. The heat of the day radiated off the cement board siding. Heel to heel, he worked his way along the wall, keeping his knife out in front of him. Reaching a dark window, he rose up and peered inside. In the gloom, he could just make out a dining room table surrounded by chairs. The remains of a meal still sat at the table. Tom continued to stare into the house for several seconds, watching for any movement. Not seeing any, he moved on, working toward the front of the house.
Reaching the corner, he scanned the street, peering over the top of an overgrown shrub. Not seeing any immediate threats, he signaled for the group to advance to his position. Surveying the street again, he noticed movement to the right, just out of the glow of the street lamp. His eyes seemed to play tricks on him as he tried to focus, the movement blurring in and out of the inky blackness. He rapidly blinked a few times, rubbed his eyes, more movement, this time on the sides.
Eyes beginning to strain and water, he looked down the street in the other direction. There at the next intersection was the silhouette of an infected staggering into the yellow glow of another overhead lamp.
Continuing to watch the figure, he heard the others approach and join up behind him. The figure stumbled out, stopping almost directly below the lamp, and then just stood, staring up at the light. Holding his hand up to keep the group quiet, Tom continued to watch for a couple minutes. The figure swayed slightly, but never moved, just stared up at the light.
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, t
urned 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 punc
hes, 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.
Chapter 9: Deep Black
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.
The Demented Z (Book 1):The Demented Page 11
