The Demented Z (Book 1):The Demented

by Derek J. Thomas

  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.

  “Where’s Ben?” Tom said.

  Hank nodded over to the side of the lawn and started in that direction.

  “We have to go…they will be coming.” The kid said.

  Tom knew it was not the rest of his group the kid spoke of, but the infected. They would have heard the firefight and been drawn to it, knowing noise meant food. As if on cue, several howls could be heard over the crackling fire.

  Near the edge of the lawn, Hank laid Rachael down. Next to her sat Ben, grabbing his side. Red blood oozed out between his fingers, soaking his shirt. Looking over at Rachael, Tom could see no wounds. He looked up at Hank.

  “I think its smoke inhalation…passed out.” Hank said.

  Tom hunched over her still body and used his hands to check the back of her head for injuries. Finding none, he agreed with Hank’s assessment.

  He stood back up and slung his rifle over his shoulder. Knowing it was risky, but having little choice, he raced back toward the burning mog. Taking a deep breath, he ducked through the opening into the smoky interior. Immediately his eyes began to sting. Squinting to see, he climbed into the rear of the Unimog and began searching. From his memory of the layout inside the camper, he was able to find the emergency backpack containing a large first aid kit as well as other survival items. Tom was also able to find a couple packs they had loaded up with ammo and small weapons.

  Unable to hold his breath any longer, he sucked in air and immediately regretted it, the smoke burning his throat and lungs. Becoming light headed, his vision blurred and mind fogged. Losing his balance, he stumbled and caught himself with one arm up against the mini-fridge. Working to focus, he staggered to the edge of the doorway and leapt down to the floor below. Falling to his knees, he crawled, pulling the gear he had risked his life for, until his hands felt the cool comfort of grass.

  With a shudder, Tom’s stomach heaved, spilling what little breakfast he had eaten out onto the lawn. Gasping for air, he flopped over onto his side. His lungs and eyes continued to burn from the smoke.

  Angry growls could be heard from back in the trees, many sounding very close. If not for this, Tom may have lain there for quite some time. Instead he groaned and rolled back to his knees, working his way back to his feet.

  Hurrying as best he could, Tom made his way back over to the others. The kid had removed his shirt and sat next to Ben, using it to apply pressure and slow the flow of blood. Hank stood next to them and scanned the distance using his rifle scope.

  Hearing Tom running up on them, Hank said, “There are a bunch of infected coming. We don’t move, we’ll be tits-up in no time.”

  Dropping down next to Rachael, Tom began digging in one of the packs and said, “Buy us a few.” Pulling out and cracking a pill of smelling salts, Tom held it under her nose. Her reaction was nearly instantaneous, head shaking and nose wrinkling, she opened her eyes, squinting in the bright light.

  Hank’s M24 thundered next to them.

  “We’re out of the house, but we have to move.” Hank said to Rachael, hoping she would snap back to the world. Confusion crossed her face, but not wanting to waste precious seconds, he spun toward Ben and the kid.

  Ben’s face was pale and nearly lifeless.

  Tom reached back into his pack and pulled out a wound coagulation pack, tearing it open, he said, “Move the shirt.” Tom dumped the white powder over the dark, oozing wound. Using gauze and adhesive, he dressed the wound as best he could, knowing it was likely too little too late.

  Hank’s rifle continued to fire next to them, pounding their ears with loud booms. Between shots, angry growls and shrieks could be heard.

  “We have to move!” Hank shouted while reloading.

  Tom stood and raised his M4 to his shoulder. Looking in the distance, he saw hundreds of demented racing through the trees, the fastest of them nearly to them. Sighting through the scope, he began firing at the nearest ones. Once he heard Hank’s rifle back in the fight, he lowered his rifle and spun around, checking all around them for threats. Listening, he heard the pack like growls in the distance, but there were no infected within immediate sight.

  Turning back, he saw Rachael just getting to her feet. She looked at him and nodded her head, a silent “I’m okay.” He nodded back, raising his rifle to provide cover fire while Hank reloaded his M24. Every demented he shot was replaced by another.

  “We have to move.” Tom shouted. He looked over at the kid, pointed at Ben and said, “Grab one of his arms and help me drag him.” Slinging the rifle over his shoulder, Tom reached down and grabbed one of Ben’s arms and shouted, “Go, go, go!”

  The two of them began running as fast as they could, dragging Ben’s limp form behind them. His eyes never opened and he barely let out a moan.

  “I’ll catch up.” Hank said from behind them, continuing to fire at the oncoming horde.

  Tom knew he would have no problems catching up to the three of them. Even Rachael was slow moving, burdened by the heavy ammo and survival packs.

  Between heavy breaths, Tom said,
“Drop the pack…Hank will grab it if he can.” Beside him, the kid was gasping for air.

  “I can’t.” The kid said between ragged breaths.

  Tom’s legs burned with pain. His lungs ached for more oxygen. He knew all too well just how the kid felt. “Top of the hill…just make the hill.” He said.

  The forest was not thick through here but instead dotted with giant Ponderosa pine trees that left giant pine cones strewn about. Footing was becoming difficult as the hillside got steeper and the piles of round cones became more abundant.

  Nearly to the top, the kid staggered and fell to his knees, gasping for air. He tried to say something, but nothing came out, just a sucking sound as his body desperately tried to get air.

  Letting go of Ben’s arm, Tom said, “Somebody check Ben.” He unslung his rifle and turned back the way they had come. Partway to them was Hank, throwing the survival pack over his shoulder and reaching down for his rifle. Less than 20 yards behind him were several demented, sprinting awkwardly across the uneven ground. Dozens more followed in their wake.

  “Covering!” Tom shouted just before pulling the trigger on his M4. His shot hit nothing but dirt. He fired several more shots...dirt. The adrenaline was well past gone and his body was beginning to shake, its desire for fuel causing micro spasms. He tried to take several deep breaths. Kneeling into a crouch, he rested his elbow on his extended leg and began sending lead downrange.

  “He’s gone.” Rachael said from behind.

  Tom knew it was Ben she spoke of and it sickened him to think this, but he was relieved.

  Drawing the kid’s pistol out of his waistband, Tom handed it to Rachael and said, “Go.” She started to say something, but he cut her off. “Just go.”

  Turning back around, Tom saw Hank working his way up the steep incline, his face dripping sweat. Raising his M4, Tom fired several shots down the hill before his rifle ran dry. “Loading!” he shouted before dropping the empty mag to the ground and reaching for a fresh one in his vest pouch.

  Hearing this, Hank stopped, pulled a pistol out of his side holster and began popping off rounds.

  Slamming a fresh magazine into the empty well, Tom shouted, “Go…I’ll follow” and began firing again. His shots were rhythmic and well placed, focusing on proper breathing and controlled trigger pulls.

  There were far too many infected to gun them all down, but Tom hoped to at least buy everyone some extra time by taking down the quickest ones. Their relentless speed was astounding. They did not seem to tire. Growling angrily, they went after their prey with single minded focus. Aiming for their heads to keep them from coming back later, Tom emptied another mag and immediately turned and began racing for the top of the hill.

  Not seeing the others, he knew they must have made the crest and started back down the other side, hopefully with a safe haven in sight. Breathing heavily, he reached the top and found the others were in fact racing down the other side. Not exactly to a safe haven, but to a sprawling house development. The twisting streets and packed in houses had to have somewhere to hole up.

  He gave one final glance behind him. The sight terrified him. Nearly a dozen demented were already on the final steep pitch leading to the crest and behind them were hundreds more, tripping over each other to get at him. From his high vantage point it looked like a rising tide of shifting waves.

  On the road far below he saw several trucks and a couple cars making their way toward the Unimog’s final resting place. One of them was the blue sedan from earlier, the passenger side riddled with bullet holes and the windshield busted out. They were nearing the two story house that was now a towering inferno, flames shooting high into the air, and thick smoke billowing out across the river to the south.

  A sudden scream echoed from somewhere behind him, followed by several distinct pops from a pistol. Turning toward the noise, he could see movement amongst the houses below.

  Tom tried to get down the steep hillside as quickly as possible; knowing that the demented that reached the crest would rush down this side without regard for their own safety. He would never be able to outpace their fearless charge. Picturing the wave of bodies pouring over the top and rushing down toward him, he began to race down the hillside, dropping to his butt and sliding where the rocky terrain got too steep. His pants were beginning to shred, exposing his flesh to the sharp rocks.

  Coming to a skidding stop at the base of someone’s chain link fence that separated their backyard from the hill, Tom could hear the shrieks and growls of the demented beginning their stampede down the slope. Not daring to look back, he quickly climbed over the fence and started across the lawn in the direction he last saw Hank.

  Darting across the open space, Tom unslung his M4, and proceeded to slam in a fresh mag and charge the rifle.

  ******

  “The last one of ‘em just went over the top.” Trips said. He was a thin man with a face full of stubble and acne scars. He sat next to his father, Big Mike, in a slow moving truck. They both had watched Tom and the others crest the top of the hill in an attempt to escape the demented. Looking out the window, Trips fidgeted with the bolt on his old hunting rifle. He stared up at the massive horde still climbing the hill, wondering what could be done to save his little brother Mikey.

  Big Mike hunched forward, looking out the front windshield. “He’s headed for the new subdivision. There’s a huge cluster of houses on the other side of the hill.” He looked in the rearview mirror at a small blonde girl and said, “We’ll get brother back…Mikey is slippery, you know that.”

  She nodded her head, looking unconvinced.

  Big Mike’s hands gripped the steering wheel tight, a look of disgust crossing his face as they drove by the burning house. Eying the wreckage of the Unimog, he shook his head. “Damn waste…that was a sweet ride. You know how stoked Lincoln would’ve been if we’d brought that beast back to him.”

  “He’s gonna be pissed. Several of our guys killed, couple rigs blown to hell, and we’ve got nothin’ to bring back.” Trips said.

  Glancing in his mirror at the truck behind them, Big Mike cracked a slight grin and said, “Don’t forget the redhead we nabbed.” He looked over at Trips and added, “I think Lincoln’s gonna like her a lot…know what I mean.” His belly shook as he let out a gravely chuckle.

  Trips was quiet as he thought back to when they trapped the little hatchback on the bridge. She was clearly terrified when she stepped out of her car. He bet she had been on the run for quite some time and never expected to run into anything like them. Watching her pale white legs trembling with fear had excited him greatly. Even now, with her in the next truck back he could almost taste her. Anticipation of Lincoln getting done with her was almost too much. Her petite body would…

  “Trips! I asked you a question.” Big Mike shouted as he backhanded him in the face.

  “Ouch…What? I was thinkin.”

  Huffing in anger, Big Mike said, “Should we make some noise…draw some of those infected away from Mikey’s trail?”

  “They’ll be after us.”

  “Just pop a couple shots at ‘em. Then we can take the cut-off, circle around.”

  Trips nodded his head and began rolling his window down. “Slow up a sec.” He awkwardly shifted the rifle around until it was pointed out the window. Peering through the scope, his view was filled with a thrashing mass of arms and bodies, desperately trying to gain the hill. Rather than pick out a target, he just fired off a round, never even seeing what it hit. Inside the cab, the blast sounded like a nuclear explosion, causing all of their ears to start ringing.

  Had anyone cared to look, they would have seen Maggie, the daughter in the back, with her knees tucked up to her chest, her hands over her ears, and small tears running down her cheeks. Her world of princesses and ponies was gone, barely remaining even in her own mind. Mikey had been the only good thing left in her life and now he was gone as well.

  Rapidly sliding the bolt back and forward, Trips fluidly chamber
ed another round. With a deafening boom, he sent a second bullet flying up into the mass. Holding the rifle to the side, he screamed out the window as loud as he could, “Hey! Come get some! Fresh brains!” He began laughing hysterically.

  “You’re an idiot.” Big Mike said. Squinting up the hill, he added, “Looks like some are stopping. Cook off another shot.”

  Another boom, and it was clear that quite a few had caught sight of the meat wagons on the road and were redirecting their efforts. Many had already topped the hill and many more were continuing their upward climb, but Trips’ efforts had drawn a huge portion of them.

  Big Mike looked up at the mass of demented headed their way and said, “I think it’s time to move. Let’s circle around…I bet Blue Creek is free of wrecks.”

  Trips pulled the rifle back in, popped out the mag and began topping it off. “Jimmy and I drove it a few days back, wasn’t nuttin. Should still be clear.”

  Stomping on the gas, their truck tires squealed on the pavement, and a dark cloud of smoke billowed out of their exhaust pipe. The remaining two vehicles accelerated through the cloud, trying to keep up.

  Chapter 11: Confrontation

  Ripping around the corner, Tom saw Hank pulling up his rifle, directly in front of him were Rachael and the kid, backing away from several undead. Hank fired his rifle, hitting the first one in the neck, tearing away a huge chunk of flesh. The slow moving corpse’s head flopped to the side, his ear resting on his shoulder, but despite the near decapitation it continued its slow procession forward. Quickly chambering another round, Hank fired again, dropping the stubborn thing with a well-placed shot to the face.

  Continuing to sprint toward them, Tom yelled, “Run! There coming!”

  Both Rachael and the kid turned toward him, looks of panic on their faces. It was clear they were torn whether they should continue to back away from the slow moving immediate threat or heed his command and run toward them. Their eyes were wide open, mouths gaping, legs unmoving, they were like deer caught in headlights.