Rather than try to talk sense into them Tom continued to sprint directly at them, knowing they would figure it out. Hank was well aware of the threat that was sure to come and had already started to run directly toward the undead. He slung his rifle, drawing his sidearm. Racing past Rachael and the kid, he slowed before the first zombie and raised his pistol, firing directly into the staggering girl’s face. She collapsed to the ground.
The shot seemed to pull Rachael and the kid out of their stupor. Both of them simultaneously spun around, following after Hank in a rush.
Pop. Pop.
Two more toppled to the ground.
Tom could hear a cascade of moans echoing out from between the packed in homes. Looking to the sides, he saw undead stumbling their way between the houses, drawn to the noise. Up until now he had not noticed the smell, but with each deep breath he sucked in the rotting stench of the dead. The development seemed like a logical reprieve from the fast moving demented that chased them, but maybe it was a death trap, filled with the undead. In small numbers their slow movements made them easy targets, but if this subdivision was filled with them it would be a different story.
Dotting the street were car wrecks and piles of debris that likely blew in, accumulating over time. Tom could see one of the undead inside the nearest car, its face up against the window as it pounded on the glass, unable to figure out how to get out. Its movements were slow, seeming to take every bit of energy the hideous thing had. If this was any evidence, Tom was sure that many of the houses likely still had lingering residents, waiting for a meal to walk in the door.
Rather than waste ammo and time, Tom continued to sprint toward the others, knowing the slow movers to the sides would never catch up to him. Using his pistol, Hank had cleared the street immediately in front. Rachael and the kid were just catching up to him. The three of them began to slow and turn back toward Tom to see if he followed. Their eyes opened wide with shock, seeing what followed him. They knew of the insurmountable numbers that were following them, but to see them so close nearly brought them to their knees.
Rachael let out a scream.
“Keep moving.” Tom shouted as he sprinted up to them. “Go, just run.” Needing no further encouragement, they all turned and ran with everything they had.
The air was filled with the sounds of feet hitting pavement and the horrible growls and shrieks of the demented. The trailing horde was so loud they could not hear their own footsteps or heavy breathing. Undead were staggering out from behind cars and between houses, steadily squeezing them into a narrowing funnel. Occasionally Hank or Tom had to slow, raise their weapon, and fire a shot to clear their path, allowing the trailing horde to gain some ground.
Daring to glance back, Tom saw the most terrifying sight he could imagine. The street, sidewalks, and lawns were packed with the demented, one surging mass of flailing arms and bared teeth. There were so many and they were so frantic that individual bodies were indistinguishable from one another. They were a tidal wave that had risen from the sea of hell, looking for bodies to add to their surging mass. And they were close.
The four of them continued to race down the street, looking for something, anything that might give them a chance. After having run up the steep hillside, down the other side, and now through block after block of subdivision, each of them was nearing their breaking point. The adrenaline had long since worn off, replaced by fatigue and pain.
It was Rachael that said something first, “I can’t keep going.” Her breathing was labored, a monumental effort just to get the words out.
Tom looked at the rest of the group and found Hank was in similar shape. His long stride had shortened and he was beginning to slow, sweat pouring from his forehead. Next to him ran the kid. He was clearly in the best running shape of all of them. With a steady stride and rhythmic breathing it looked as if he could maintain this pace for longer than the others, but not forever.
Not in the best shape of his life, but no slacker either, Tom was definitely feeling the effects of everything they had been through, and he knew this could not go on much longer. The lactic acid in his muscles stung throughout his legs. The demented continued to gain on them.
There was one thing Tom had discovered through all of his training with clients – it was the mind that first told the average person that they were fatigued and needed to stop. If a person was able to overcome these mental barriers their body would continue to perform for quite some time beyond what seemed possible.
Knowing they had to continue on, he said, “Just a little farther. Don’t give up now.” He had no idea how to get them out of this, but hope often provided fuel.
It was a couple blocks later that Tom hit on a possible way out and it was a flashback to their escape from Portland that triggered it. He remembered back to the boats out on the Columbia River filled with survivors, and the shore dotted with demented, none testing the cold waters. Hoping they truly had an aversion to water, he said, “Not much farther, I have an idea.” Nobody said anything in response.
Continuing to sprint through the subdivision, Tom took them on a winding path that lead through several blocks of destruction and deserted streets. He was just familiar enough with the area to know which direction the main arterial ran and what lay along it. If he didn't find it soon they were finished.
“I can’t…I can’t go any more.” Rachael said as she began to slow. She had hit the wall and as anyone that tried sustaining a sprint knew, it was a wall, not some sand or mud that slowed you, but a solid, progress halting wall.
“Rachael!” Tom shouted with anger. “You have to or I’m stopping with you.” He could see she was trying, tears streaming down her face with exhaustion. “We will both die, you have to push through.” A quick glance back revealed the demented were less than a half block back, nearly on top of them, their angered faces clearly visible.
Rachael’s face tightened into a grimace and she screamed out. Not a girlie scream, but a caveman like grunt of power. She had dug deeper. Tom knew she could. Everyone had it in them, but only a few were ever put in a situation to require it and even fewer were mentally able to make the reach.
Rounding the next corner, Tom saw what he had been searching for. When the subdivision was first built they had created a giant manmade lake, a marketing ploy to attract potential homeowners. Its steep banks dropped into the water and continued to a depth of about twelve feet and maintained that depth across its nearly two football field width. As long as the demented had no desire to enter the dark water, it would take them quite some time to circle its nearly mile long shoreline, and that was if they were smart enough to realize going around was an option. As a backup, Tom hoped that if they were unafraid of the water, that they had at least lost the mental capacity to be able to swim.
All four of them hopped over the small barrier that separated the roadway from the walking path that circled the lake, and jumped off the bank into the water. Under different circumstances the cool water would have felt refreshing, but this never crossed any of their minds as they bobbed back to the surface, kicking hard to keep afloat. Their weapons and gear weighed on them, trying to pull them under the surface.
Tom coughed and sputtered as he shifted the sling on his M4 over his head to keep it from slipping off. “Drop your gear if you have to.” Flipping over onto his back, he tried to relax and take long powerful strokes with his arms and legs.
Looking back, he watched as the wave of demented came flowing over the barrier and skidding to a halt at the water’s bank. The surge was too great and as more demented came rushing forward those in the front were toppled into the lake. Tom’s heart raced watching the bodies tumble into the same water he was in. Trying not to panic, he continued to focus on swimming away from the edge.
Arms and legs thrashed and flailed in the water as more demented continued to pour over the steep bank and down into the water. Those that remained on land looked out at their prey, barking and growling in rage. Watching the wat
er’s edge, Tom saw several heads pop back above the surface, surrounded by arms, legs, and splashing water. His heart sank, dreading the thought of those things swimming after them. Continuing to watch, he saw the same heads begin to drop below the surface, disappearing under the thrashing waves.
As the last few struggling bodies sank below the water, only a line of angered demented remained. Other than slight ripples along the shoreline, there was no sign of those that had entered the lake. “We’re clear guys, we just gotta make the shore. Everyone okay?” Tom said.
Rachael and the kid gave affirmatives, and then Hank said, “Can you pass me the shampoo?” Despite everything they had been through, each of them began to chuckle.
They were all glad the lake was no wider than it was, because fatigue was wearing heavily on each of them as they neared the far shore. Over the sound of splashing water several engines could be heard. It was clear from the increase in volume that they were headed their way.
“Welcoming wagon?” Hank said.
Tom tried craning his neck around while continuing to swim. “Not gonna be good.” He could just make out several vehicles coming down the road, sunlight glaring off their windshields. With only twenty feet remaining, Tom said, “Push for the shore guys.”
The entire group began taking hard, focused strokes. Tom continued to look back toward the shore as he swam. His heart sank as the vehicles neared and he recognized the lead truck as the one from the other side of the hill. This was going to be bad company and if they were stuck out in the lake when these guys arrived, things were going to get tough real fast.
Continuing to watch, it quickly became clear that the vehicles were going to arrive before they could reach land. With his heavy wet clothes and equipment there was no way he was going to be able to unsling his M4 in defense. “We’re not going to make it, stay cool.” Tom said.
With a squeal of rubber on pavement, the little convoy came skidding to a halt across from them. Doors flew open and bodies came pouring out, yelling and pointing a variety of weapons at the four of them. They had swam within ten feet of the shore, but it was not quite enough, their feet just beginning to feel the muddy bottom.
“Gotcha! Hands up and come out real slow.” Big Mike said while pointing a huge revolver directly at Tom. “Trips, help your brother out of there.” He said, never taking his eyes off Tom.
A smaller, wiry guy slung a hunting rifle over his shoulder and moved down the bank, straight in from the kid. “What the hell Mikey, caught by these muffins?”
“They’re legit.” Mikey said.
Three more guys joined Big Mike at the top of the bank, holding their weapons at their sides. Dressed in a piecemeal mixture of camouflage, they looked like street thugs that just robbed an Army surplus store. Each of them held their weapons loosely by their sides, looking either unworried or unprepared, Tom wasn’t sure.
Slogging their way out of the lake, Hank, Rachael, and Tom all raised their hands up above their heads, water streaming off their soaked clothes. Mikey reached out, allowing his brother to pull him up out of the muck. Fatigue showed on all of their faces. Keeping their hands above their heads, the three of them climbed the bank directly in front of Big Mike.
As they reached the top, he spit next to Tom’s feet, looked him in the eyes and grinned. “Zip tie’em boys.”
Stinging bile rose in Tom’s throat. He knew once they were bound it would be very difficult to stop these dirt bags from doing whatever they wanted. His M4 was slung over his shoulder. Impossible to reach anywhere near fast enough. Feeling the weight of his pistol on his hip, he began slowly lowering his hands.
Cocking the hammer on his revolver, Big Mike said, “Tsssk, tsssk, I don’t think so.”
If there was ever a chance to take them by surprise, it was long gone now. Mikey joined them and said, “Where's Maggie Dad?”
“In the truck…help bind ‘em first.” Big Mike said while nodding toward Tom.
Watching the kid grab a set of zip ties from one of the other men, Tom hoped that his mercy would be remembered, but the kid did not hesitate to help bind their arms behind their backs. Even Rachael’s arms were bound behind her back. Tom’s face burned with heat as he watched the men staring at Rachael’s body, like she was some kind of golden trophy. Her wet shirt and cold skin left little to the imagination. Despite the cold, beads of sweat began to form on Tom’s brow as he watched one of the men step toward her, licking his lips as he reached out for one of her breasts.
“Hey! Touch the goods early and Lincoln will have your balls.” Big Mike said.
Trips circled around the three of them, removing all their weapons. Slicing the sling on Tom’s M4, he handed it to Big Mike and said, “Real nice.”
Big Mike holstered his revolver, looking over the rifle. Hefting it a few times in his hands, as if testing the weight, he looked directly in Tom’s eyes. “You killed some good men…friends.” He looked over at Hank and then Rachael, leaving his eyes on her. “You’re all gonna pay. You’ll wish those things had got ya.” He said, nodding toward the other side of the lake.
“Hey, I think I know this guy.” One of the men said. The middle aged man wore a ripped up set of BDUs and held a pump shotgun pointed at the ground. “This is that Tom guy from the local documentary last year. Some hot shot survival trainer. The documentary was on him training that big expedition. I think they wanted to climb Everest, trace the Amazon, and cross the Sahara in one year…maybe something more, can’t remember.”
“Think Lincoln could use him?” Big Mike asked.
The man stood thinking. “Probably…military contracted him off and on for training.”
“Live around here?”
“Up north. Not sure exactly where, but I bet Peterson knows. He used to live out that way…knows everybody.”
Tom’s stomach knotted up, knowing where this conversation was going. He debated saying something, but worried it would make them want to find his house all the more.
“Hook up with Peterson when we get back, grab a few men , we can take a trip. Bet there is some good supplies out there.”
Tom's mind flashed to the thought of Kelly and Sam hunkered down at home, surprised by these dirt bags showing up. Tom started to say, “I think we can…”
Before Tom could finish, he saw the butt end of his M4 flying right at his face and then everything went black.
******
Lying in bed with little Sam’s head resting on her lap, Kelly continued to listen to the incessant banging downstairs. It had been a couple days since they all started pounding at the window shutters and doors. Her mind was in a haze with little to no sleep over the past forty-eight hours. She was in constant fear of being overrun by the demented and the noise was a constant reminder of what was trying to get in.
Little Sam stirred in his sleep and mumbled something under his breath. The words were unintelligible but it was clear he was having a nightmare, a common occurrence lately. Rubbing his back lightly, he calmed to her comforting touch.
From downstairs came the sudden sound of splintering wood followed by an angered growl. The pounding increased in intensity. More splintering and cracking wood. They were getting in.
Kelly’s pulse raced, her heart pounding in her chest.
The thud of something falling to the floor echoed up the stairway. More angry growls filtered up from downstairs and were immediately followed by guttural grunts.
Shaking Sam, Kelly watched as he slowly opened his squinting, sleep filled eyes. “Wake up honey.” She didn’t want to startle him, but knew he could only be protected from the truth for so long. “The crazies are getting in, wake up.”
Blinking rapidly a few times, he said, “I’m up…I’m up.” His head snapped around, eyes widening when more banging came from downstairs. Immediately tears began to well up, fear filling his face.
“Shh…Shh…we gotta stay quite.” She whispered. “Get your backpack on."
Both of them were already dressed, h
aving slept with their clothes on to be as ready as possible. Kelly got up out of bed and tip toed over to the windows that they spent so much time staring out of. Peering down, she could see several of them still staggering around in the lawn. They acted unaware that others had found a way inside the house.
Hearing more grunts from below, Kelly continued watching out the window. A couple of the demented raised their heads, cocking it to the side, listening. Mesmerized, she continued to watch as one of them opened its mouth, grunting in return and then two of them raced out of view. Several still remained shifting around in the yard.
Reaching down, she grabbed her backpack and began slinging it over her shoulders. The banging escalated, followed by an enormous thud. She reached into the corner, grabbing the shotgun, knowing it had a round chambered, ready to fire. Holding a hand out toward Sam, signaling him to stay put, she moved out into the hallway, continuing to listen.
The downstairs had erupted into a cacophony of sounds. They were tearing the place apart in search of their prey. Everything from breaking glass to splintering wood to banging metal to rage filled shrieks could be heard. With each ear piercing shriek, Kelly’s heart skipped a beat, stinging vomit rising in her throat. It was everything she feared coming to fruition.
Standing halfway in the hall, shotgun pointed at the floor, she tried to decide what to do. She was sure that Tom was gone, probably never having made it out of Portland. He would have been back by now. Was this to be her and Sam’s last stand? They couldn’t get to Sam…she would never let it go that far.
Creeping toward the stairs, she continued to listen to them tear her house apart. Partway down the hall she could just see over the top step, down to the wood landing below. The wood was mostly covered by scattered debris.
Staring back at her was their family portrait, taken nearly a year ago, the glass shattered and scattered around it. She stood, glaring down at it, angry at it. Knowing her previous life was gone, it angered her that it had the audacity to flaunt it in her the face. She wanted to scream at it. She wanted to shoot it. She hated it.
The Demented Z (Book 1):The Demented Page 17
