American Revenant (Book 3): The Monster In Man

by John L. Davis IV

  “Son of a bitch,” he breathed, hot blood pouring down his face, ripples of agony making him nauseous. The smell of fresh blood caused a roar-like moan to erupt from the surrounding dead.

  Jimmy roared back at the mass of undead pressing in at him. His shirt was nearly shredded, hanging in tattered remnants from his shoulders. Fingers slid in between his pants and the belt he wore, nearly yanking him to a halt. Without hesitation Jimmy dropped one hand to the pant leg that was still tucked into the bite guard, yanking it free then flipping his belt-buckle loose, stepping out of his pants as they fell.

  Now clothed only in a tattered shirt, his boxer shorts, and the leather bite guards, Jimmy pushed back against the relentless crowd. He still had his rifle and the small day-kit that was cinched around his waist.

  Jimmy could feel himself beginning to weaken, his strength sapped and waning. “Find a way, or make one, damn it!” he swore out loud. Fingernails raked his thighs and back, grabbed at the rifle strap and snatched at his hair, but he kept going, shoving the rifle-butt into every face that came close.

  Over the heads of the shoving horde he could see daylight close by, no longer just a sea of death crushing in on him. “Find one, find one,” he huffed, breath after breath. Then he was out, falling into empty space, no dead shoving from the front, only those pushing at his back.

  He went face first toward the pavement, tucking his shoulder and rolling, coming up on his feet, head throbbing and disoriented from the tumble and the torture that was his ear and face. Jimmy threw a quick glance over his shoulder, elated to see that he had gained several feet on the horde. Not willing to waste the meager advantage he took off at a dead run across the Children’s Center parking lot, cutting across an overgrown field toward the bank which he knew to be directly across Shinn Lane from his current position.

  Jimmy ran, despite the throbbing chunk of sun that had embedded itself in his skull and the nausea, he ran as hard as he could, hoping to leave the horde behind.

  Chapter 30

  Jimmy stumbled to a halt in the middle of the bank parking lot, leaning over with hands on knees, sucking in large gulps of air. Behind him the zombies came, dogged in their pursuit, unwavering in their hunger.

  Unwilling to relinquish the miniscule lead he had gained, Jimmy stood and drove on, passing from the parking lot to an open field. Half a mile from the bank Jimmy came out of one copse of trees only to see another wide swath of woods in front of him. He hung his head briefly, feeling the blood pulsing from his ear, running down his face to drip from chin.

  He had a speed advantage over the pursuing zombie horde, though he was fully aware that he would have to rest soon. The gut-suckers coming for him did not. Conscious of the fact that he was leaving a trail of blood for the zombies to track, he had nothing to stanch the flow from his torn ear, nor did he have the time to stop and manage it. He let the blood run and continued on, pushing for the distance, the separation that would allow him to tend to his wounds.

  Exiting the second row of trees, Jimmy angled toward Highway MM, picking his way carefully but quickly across another open field. Just before coming to the highway Jimmy diverted to a small white house set back from the road.

  Leaning against the dingy vinyl siding he tore a strip of cloth from the tattered remains of his shirt to press against the gaping wound of his ear. Jimmy brought the cloth close to his eyes, blinking several times to clear his blurred vision. The shred of material was damp from sweat and other fluids he couldn’t name and he tossed the rag to the ground in frustration, afraid of what he might put into the open wound. He also feared the scratches on his back and legs, wondering if he was already infected.

  Jimmy hung his hammering head, the pain less of a burning fire now, more a raw throb that seemed to pulse against his heartbeat. His vision blurred again, the trampled grass at his feet shimmering for a moment. He vomited between his spread feet, stomach heaving bile and little else.

  In the distance he could still hear the weighty moan of the horde and he knew they continued to follow, coming along the blood trail he left behind. Often zombies would tire of a chase when their prey was out of sight for long, but the massive horde did not seem to be slowing as they came through the trees in the distance.

  Wiping sweat from his eyes Jimmy stood straight, swaying on his feet for a moment before taking the first steps toward the highway. His right foot suddenly dropped from under him, throwing him to the ground. He had found a hole hidden in the tall grass, possibly made by a groundhog and a new agony was added to his list as a torment of razors ripped through his ankle. “Fuck!” He swore, slamming his fist into the open ground several times.

  Jimmy pulled his foot from the hole, examining the rapid swelling. He couldn’t tell if the ankle was broken or not, he only knew it hurt like hell. “Find a way,” he muttered to himself, “find a way or make one.”

  He pushed upright, gingerly attempting to set weight on his foot. He braced his toes on the ground and slowly let the ankle settle. Jimmy nearly fell over again as the razors shifted inside his skin and bones. Glancing over his shoulder he could see the horde, now half-way across the barren field.

  Carefully he hobbled forward, right toes, then left foot, right toes, left foot, up and down, up and down. “Oh you bastard,” he said, cursing no one.

  Instead of following Highway MM he crossed it into another field, heading for yet another stretch of trees. By now Jimmy was feeling thick-headed, foggy, and he knew he wasn’t thinking clearly. Moving forward was the only thing he could think at the moment, finding a way.

  Into the woods, working from tree to tree, dripping both blood and sweat along his path, Jimmy pushed on, only thinking to get away from the horde. Reaching behind his back he slid the small fanny-pack style day-kit around to his front, needing a drink of water. His dismay at finding the pack torn apart and empty was a palpable thing, adding weight to his step.

  Coming out of the woods he found himself in a large graveled yard scattered with heavy farm equipment. There were several long barn-like structures in various locations throughout the compound, as well as two short silos. “What the hell,” he said aloud. “I know this place. Centerville Road should be that way.” He looked in the direction he spoke of, and he could see the road past a large garage and two houses separated by a narrow drive and big yards.

  He began to thread his way through the equipment, moving hastily toward the road, which he could follow to Veteran’s Road, and back out to the main highway.

  Stumbling along, Jimmy rounded the corner of a building and walked into two zombies standing near a door into an open floor shop. Startled, Jimmy continued moving forward, shoving the two creatures away, pushing through them instead of stepping back.

  The gut-suckers had been caught off guard, shuffling after Jimmy as he went into the open shop. Inside the shop he stopped behind a long worktable, hoping to keep it between him and the zombies.

  He scanned the room for a moment, looking for a weapon before realizing he still had his rifle strapped to his back. The only thing he had made away with. “Lost my fuckin’ pants,” he slurred. Bringing the suppressed rifle to bear on the advancing creatures he popped off shot after shot, hitting one in the torso. The pain radiating from his ear, the throbbing in his ankle, and intermittent waves of dizziness, made it difficult to steady the rifle.

  “Come on, man,” Jimmy said aloud. He backed away from the table several steps as the creatures bumped into it, reaching across to grab at him. Raising the rifle, Jimmy sighted on the zombie now sidling down the table, walking forward and sideways at the same time. The table shifted on one end, giving the zombies an easier path. Taking a deep breath Jimmy fired, though he concentrated on making the shot it still took three rounds before he caught the first gut-sucker in the head, dropping it.

  “Damn, have to do better, there, Jimbo.” Jimmy shrugged at his own voice and took a step back, glancing over his shoulder to see a workbench stretching along the wall, covered in v
arious tools and pieces of equipment in stages of repair, as well as a sharpening station with several wicked looking implements with gleaming edges. He had no idea what they were for, but was glad to know they were there.

  The zombie was two steps closer when Jimmy refocused, setting the badly weaving sight on the shuffling, moaning thing. His first shot went wild, ricocheting off of something metal with a whine. His second shot tore through the creature’s neck, ripping out a large chunk of foul smelling flesh.

  “One more time Jimbo.” He took a breath, relaxed (as much as he could with a zombie just steps away), took aim and gently squeezed the trigger. Click. He squeezed again, quickly, and click, click, click. He looked down at the rifle dumbly, tilting it to look into the open bolt. “Fuckin’ empty!” He stepped forward and jammed the rifle, barrel first into the oozing face of the zombie. It took several strikes before he was able to punch through the skull, burying the warm barrel in brain tissue.

  Jimmy let the useless weapon fall with the zombie as he stumbled backward, his head light and spinning. Suddenly his feet were out from under him, having stepped on a short piece of pipe that lay loose on the floor. The pipe shot out, ringing across the concrete floor as Jimmy fell backward, striking the long workbench.

  The sharpening station sat next to a board, presumably used to carry sharpened instruments. Jimmy’s left shoulder struck the corner of the board, flipping it up, flinging sharp tools into the air. His head struck the side of the bench, a tight ring of pain, a halo of fire, wrapped its way around his skull. His vision began to darken until one of those sharp tools fell across his chest, tearing through the last shreds of his shirt and opening an eight inch gash along his chest.

  He sat upright, a screaming sob bursting forth as the new pain flared, supplanting the raging agony in his skull. Jimmy clutched as his chest, fingers instantly drenched by the cascade of blood from the gaping wound. Using the bench to pull himself up stretched both abdominal and pectoral muscles, causing new and brilliant pain to lance through his body.

  “Just lay down, right fucking here, whatever finds me can have me,” he thought, even as he took a step forward. One foot in front of the other he made it out of the shop, heading in the direction of the houses he had glimpsed earlier.

  Long minutes later, the low moan of the horde unseen behind him still driving him on, he stood in the middle of a narrow gravel drive separating two brick-sided ranch-style homes. He glanced back and forth, unable to think clearly through the miasma of pain in body and mind. “Which one, Jimbo?” he asked himself aloud. “That one,” he answered, pointing to a two story house he spotted through a screen of trees across Centerville Road.

  Crossing the road he stumbled up a gentle slope of knee-high grass, making directly for the front door of the large house. Without hesitation he threw the unlocked door wide, stepping quickly into the house. Just a few feet inside the door he said, “Oh, shit,” as he took a step back. “Anybody home?” he called out several times. When no one answered and nothing dead came out to see if dinner had been delivered he shut the door behind him, flipping the lock.

  Jimmy felt delirious, and hot. He knew he was feverish. “Need water.” First to the kitchen, trying faucets he knew wouldn’t work. To a half-bath on the first floor, no water to be found there.

  He stood at the bottom of the stairs to the second floor, the steps appearing to Jimmy a nearly insurmountable mountain. “Find a way,” he said, taking the first step.

  The bathroom on the second floor had several bottles of over-the-counter pain medications. He sat the aspirin aside, his clouded mind thinking “blood thinner,” instead he chose several tablets of acetaminophen, swallowing them dry. “Still need water,” he said.

  He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the bathroom mirror and refused to look again. He feared the horror-show reflected back at him, looking too much like one of the things that now tracked him, hounds of blood.

  He stood looking at the toilet for a moment before reaching behind and lifting the heavy ceramic lid from the tank, which slid from his fingers, cracking when it hit the tiled floor. His shoulders sagged at the brackish water that sat in the tank, un-refreshed for nearly two years. “Damn it.” Even his curse was half-hearted and weak.

  Jimmy sat on the closed lid of the toilet, opening a nearly empty bottle of peroxide found in a small cabinet under the sink. Taking a deep breath he upended the bottle over his torn ear, squeezing the plastic to squirt the liquid into the wound. He cried out when the cool peroxide hit the open wound. Dropping the bottle he slid from the seat to the floor, tears and bloody foam dribbling down his face.

  Minutes passed on the floor, pain causing alternating waves of dizziness and blurred vision. Eventually Jimmy raised his head and looked at the dark brown bottle lying next to him. He picked it up, swishing it to gauge how much of the healing liquid remained. Grunting, he slid his buttocks out along the tile, leaning backward so that he could douse the long gash along his chest with the last of the peroxide.

  Another breath, another squeeze of the bottle, a loud sob and Jimmy passed out. Minutes later he woke to see the last of the pinkish foam dwindle away, as if being absorbed into the gash. “Find a way, buddy,” Jimmy muttered. “You got it, Rick,” he said aloud.

  Carefully making his way from the bathroom he went first into a bedroom across the hallway, finding a teenage girl’s room he turned around and hobbled to the end of the hall, where he thought the master bedroom would be.

  The room was large and comfortably furnished, and for a moment Jimmy considered laying down on the dusty bed. “Might not get up again, Jimbo. Gotta find a way home,” he muttered. In the spacious closet he found a pair of suit pants that, while short, fit around his waist. Hanging next to that he saw a woman’s sweater, red, with a green wreath surrounded by tiny bells of silvery cloth. “Chilly out, and Tam’ll like the Christmas stuff on it,” he thought as he pulled the sweater from its hanger and set it on a nearby chair.

  Inside a massive mahogany dresser he found several men’s white t-shirts, one of which he used as a bandage, tying it around his chest, the knot in front pressing another folded shirt against the wound. He wrapped one of the shirts around his head, pressing against the ear, and closing the wound.

  Exhausted, Jimmy sat back in a cloth upholstered chair next to a window that looked out onto trees, with just a glimpse of the road nearby. His vision blurred again, making the trees waver and swim. He blinked his eyes several times, attempting to clear his sight without much success. “Rest ‘em for a minute,” he said to the window.

  Jimmy’s eyes snapped open to a cold and dark room, his breath fogging his faint reflection in the glass. “Uhhh, damn,” he raised a hand to stop the kick-drum beating inside his head. He glanced at his watch, the glass cracked, hands unmoving. Noticing a slight tinge of dawn on the horizon, Jimmy realized he had slept most of yesterday and all night.

  “Gotta move, Jimbo, Tam and the girls are waitin’,” he mumbled, his tongue feeling thick and pasty. Standing up slowly he grabbed the sweater he had set aside, pulling it carefully over his bandages. He used the empty toilet in the master bath to relieve himself, noticing the darkness and stench of his urine, “Dehydration” he thought. Once again he avoided a close look at himself in the mirror.

  From the kitchen he took two large knives, slipping them through the belt he had taken from the closet where he had gotten the pants. Bolstered by the long rest Jimmy shuffled to the front door, favoring the swollen ankle. Leaning on the door, he pressed his uninjured ear to the glass pane, listening.

  He could hear faint rustling sounds, and several low moans. Going back upstairs he looked through the window, concentrating on the yard below.

  The horde milled about lazily in front of the house, they had stopped where his blood trail ended.

  “Well, shit.” The zombie horde did not appear to know that he was inside, though it was only a matter of time before he did something to alert them to his presence. �
��Gotta move, Jimmy-boy, find a way.”

  Jimmy made his way to the back of the house, where a door led out to a small second floor deck. From the window in the door he could see a detached garage just below the deck. “Out and down, only way through.”

  Despite his extended rest Jimmy felt weary, constant pain eating away at his limited reserves.

  The jump from the balcony to the garage roof seemed to jar every single pain center in his body. He sobbed once, twice before realizing the horde of undead had started moaning again, louder now. They were alerted and searching, actively seeking to devour him.

  He crawled across the roof, looking back once to see the first of the horde coming around the corner of the house. Reaching the corner of the building he hesitated, fearing the pain the drop would cause as much as he feared the hungry dead at that very moment.

  Jimmy angled around, sliding his torso out over the edge, dangling as low as he could before letting go. A bolt of lightning shot up from his ankle, lancing its way to his chest and up through his skull, ripping through the tear in his ear. He bit back the scream as much as he could and turned toward a dense copse of trees a few yards away.

  Jimmy ran as fast as his twisted ankle would allow, through woods and across fields, around homes and under shrubs, he moved away from the horde, though he was slower now, wearing down quickly.

  Jimmy’s body protested the vigorous activity with pain, dull and throbbing or sharp and burning, he was always in pain. “Fuck me, make it stop,” he muttered, rounding a house nearly two miles and several hours away from the two story where he had found his new clothes.

  His breath came in great shuddering gasps, each heaving intake and exhale rippling across his chest in a wave of torment. At the far end of the yard he was currently in he saw an old truck up on blocks and stumbled drunkenly toward it.