13 Bites Volume II (13 Bites Anthology Series Book 2)

by Adam Bennett

  Weeks rolled into months, and yet no progress had been made with Jon Howard. Outwardly, he expressed remorse at his inability to recall neither the details of the horrific acts for which he’d been incarcerated, nor the acts that had extended his incarceration indefinitely. Dan had tried showing him images that had been captured of him feeding on his victims to no avail. Jon didn’t even recognize himself.

  Dan had begun, at long last, to understand why his peers had diagnosed Jon as a dissociative. He was hard pressed to think of another term for Jon’ total and perpetual inability to grasp the facts at hand. He would insist that it was not him, despite the mountains of evidence presented. His fellow doctors at Black Lake could also not explain his insistence beyond the obvious conclusion that he was, indeed, lying.

  So Dan was forced, after six months, to come to a decision. Is Jon Howard a dissociative psychopath, or is he merely a murderous sociopathic liar?

  His total inability to treat Jon, however, was also an important factor. Therefore, after months of trying, Dan passed Jon on to another doctor to treat. Reassignments were done at random, as part of Victor’s security measures.

  “Finally,” Victor observed as Dan handed over his bundle of reassignments.

  “I’m a sucker for a hard-luck case, what can I say?” Dan replied with ill-concealed humor.

  Every six weeks, each doctor met individually with the warden with a bundle of patient files for random reassignment. The concept, as always, was to provide the best care for the patient. Dan also knew that the reassignments kept doctors from forming unhealthy attachments to their patients. The most dangerous thing in a psychiatric hospital was not the patients; it was the staff. Staff who formed attachments to patients became susceptible to their influence and nothing was more probable than a charismatic sociopath getting into the head of a staff member.

  “I’m glad you brought this file to me,” Victor concluded. “I was starting to get concerned.”

  “You know me, Vicky,” Dan replied, using a friendly abbreviation of Victor’s name that he knew irked the old warden. “Only after I’m sure I’ve tried everything.”

  “I hate that name.”

  Dan laughed in spite of his mood.

  “Only my mother calls me that.”

  “How is she?” Dan asked with concern.

  “Comfortable enough.” Victor replied. “She doesn’t remember who I am most days.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Victor waved off the apology, but indicated his thanks for the file with a nod.

  Months passed by, much as they always did. Dan settled into the routine of treating the patients of Black Lake. In his quiet times, he often thought of Jon and who was treating him now. The doctors never revealed their patients when they spoke during the end-of-day group therapy sessions, so there was no way to know who was treating him now. Whenever he thought of Jon, the image of the wiry black apparition invariably invaded his memory. He’d only seen the image once, in a reflection of 18th century glass, but it stuck in his mind like a splinter.

  Outbursts weren’t uncommon in Black Lake Hospital. For the most part they took place in the cells, though sometimes in the yard or while patients were on their way to or from their cells. Even more common were outbursts while undergoing treatment. None of the doctors Dan had employed had ever been accused of treatments that even remotely bordered on abusive. So when one morning the riot alarm rang during a treatment session with the fourteen-year-old boy, Dan had been completely shocked.

  Riot alarms had been reserved for the eventuality of an escape or a murder, but no matter what the cause, all staff were to report to the area of the altercation.

  “Assault in treatment room E,” the announcement blared over the speaker in the hallway just outside of his office.

  Dan sprang from his chair, ran behind his desk and retrieved his emergency med kit; his own concoction of Ativan and Haldol ready in a syringe. He bolted from his office and practically leapt down two flights of stairs. Dan stormed through the door to the fifth floor and turned left. The lock clicked open as he ran towards the door to one of his peers’ offices, a satisfying sign that a guard had remained in a watchtower to oversee the rescue effort.

  The sight that greeted him took a moment to process.

  The doctor – a woman in her early thirties – was approaching her patient with a blood soaked pen in her hand. On the floor beside her, an intern lay with his eyes open in shock, though clearly dead. In moments, Dan leapt over the patient and drove his shoulder into the doctor. Shock ran up his neck as the pen punctured his back and skidded along his shoulder blade. Agatha, the female doctor, rolled to her feet, cracked her neck to one side and smiled far wider than she had any right to.

  “Now… you die…”

  The voice was not her own, but it bit into his mind like ice and fire at once. He clutched his temples and grit his teeth as pain ripped through his thoughts. Through tears, he saw the blurred image of his peer and a shadow rushed towards him. Dan held up his arms and screamed.

  Instantly the pain was gone. Dan blinked several times and shook his head. Three guards had tackled the woman and held her to the ground. An orderly retrieved the syringe Dan had brought and quickly injected her with it. Within moments she calmed down and lost consciousness. Dan tried to stand, but fell backwards into the wall. Pain shot up his neck and his vision blurred.

  “…be fine, just needs some rest.”

  “Can he go home?” A familiar voice asked.

  “Of course,” the other voice answered. “Just see that he gets plenty of rest and keep pressure off of the wound.”

  “Thanks, doc,” Victor replied.

  The familiar voice belonged to his wife.

  “Honey?” Dan asked groggily.

  “Go ahead and take him home,” Victor ordered.

  After Dan left, Victor went to his office to prepare the incident report. He pulled out the relevant form as he woke his computer. After queueing up the footage from Room E, he began filling in the blank spots on his form. It was bound to happen sooner or later. So many combustible elements in a confined space. He was gratified that it had taken this long.

  It was more than slightly alarming that it had been a doctor who had been the first to snap, though.

  His computer beeped at him, announcing that it had retrieved the requested file. Victor hit the enter key on his keyboard as he continued filling in spaces on an all too familiar form. An unearthly growl drew his attention to his screen.

  The patient was convulsing on the couch, pulling at his restraints, though they held. He was groaning, but the sound coming out of his mouth set the hairs on Victor’s arms at attention. A light bulb burst in the treatment room and a large black figure rose out of the patient and sent the doctor flying out of her chair and into the wall. Plaster rained down on top of her and she collapsed to the floor in a heap. Her intern leapt to his feet and bent over to check on her.

  In a move Victor thought physically impossible; the doctor leapt on top of the intern and drove her pen into his chest and neck repeatedly. She kept stabbing him until her arms and face were covered in blood from arterial spray.

  Her head snapped up and she looked directly at the security camera. Victor couldn’t tear his eyes away. She craned her head to the side and smiled before speaking. The security cameras didn’t capture audio, only video… yet Victor heard her nonetheless.

  Free at last.

  Shaking, the old prison warden rewound the footage and played it back frame by frame. An unmistakable tall black thin figure leapt from the patient into the doctor. Victor paused the footage and pushed the files around on his desk, desperately looking for the patient dossier. Finding it, he flipped it open.

  What’s the matter, Vicky?

  Victor’s head shot up to his monitor. The footage was still paused, but the black figure was now standing and facing the camera. Its red eyes burning into his. Victor’s eyes began to water, but he could not look away.


  I’m still hungry, Vicky.

  Victor pushed the screen off of his desk as the voice began to laugh maniacally.

  His mind began to recover and fear gripped his soul as he fumbled for the phone and dialed a familiar number.

  “Hello?” Dan’s wife answered.

  “Jennifer!” Victor yelled. “Get the kids and get in your car… now!”

  In the background, he could hear Dan’s eight-year-old son.

  “What are you doing with the scissors, Da…”

  His voice was cut off. Victor grasped the phone as though his life depended on it. Jennifer’s scream followed and was abruptly ended. Another scream, that of Dan’s eleven-year-old, followed.

  “Hello!?” Victor mumbled.

  “I’m still hungry, Vicky.”

  Terry Schott grew up with great parents and says he had an excellent quality of life for a country boy. Married, two kids, a grown-up job… (though he says he never grew up… “Let’s not get too carried away!”). He says he was very confident that life held no unexpected surprises. Life, however, tends to has a sense of humour.

  No more six figure job, single again… but as the saying goes, every cloud has a silver lining. Would this be the correct time to queue up a desire to write? Very possible.

  Terry has probably set some sort of record for the number of books released in just two years, as well as imagining an amazing, multi-layered world.

  www.terryschott.com

  ONLY TREATS…

  Terry Schott

  This is stupid. Jim slowly, carefully, moved his arm and wiped sweat from his brow. If I make a sound they will hear me, but if I crouch here any longer, my legs will be so cramped I’ll never be able to stand, let alone run. Get up, idiot. This is a stupid idea.

  Despite the good advice from the voice in his head, he continued crouching. He couldn’t leave.

  Yesterday Morning:

  “This will be my first year without Halloween,” his daughter pouted.

  “I know, sweetie,” Jim whispered. Dozens of sleeping bodies lay strewn about the large floor. “At least we’re alive. That’s what’s important this year.”

  “I know.” She was sad and who could blame her? The biggest problem in a nine-year-old girl’s life should be what to dress up as for Halloween and which friends to join trick or treating. The world — their corner of it, at least — had bigger problems these past six months. Much bigger problems.

  “At least we got zombies.” Her little brother rolled over and grinned. “There weren’t real live zombies last year, right, Dad?”

  Jim took a slow breath. “That’s right, sport. At least we have zeds this year.”

  “Why does everyone call them zeds?” the little boy, two years younger than his sister, asked.

  I swear this boy asks me the same ten questions every day. He’s fascinated with them. If I hadn’t seen them in action, I guess I would be interested in them too. “That’s what the other towns are calling them, bud. They aren’t really zombies —”

  “Uh, yeah they are.” The boy sat up, his eyes brightening at the chance to discuss his favourite subject. “They go all crazy and stop talking. Then they attack people and eat them, right on the street. Just like zombies from the books and movies. Dad, they’re zombies.”

  Jim made a shushing noise. “Not so loud.”

  “Well, they do.”

  “Everyone here calls them zeds,” Jim repeated. “That’s what we call them too.”

  “Okay.” His son did not sound convinced, but he knew better than to argue with his father, at least for too long. “You coming back tonight?”

  “Tomorrow or the next day.”

  “Good.” His daughter hugged him again. “Bring me back some candy if you can, Daddy?”

  Jim returned her embrace and reached out to ruffle his son’s hair. “I don’t think there will be any candy where I’m going, sweetheart.”

  “But if there is?” Her grip on him tightened, excited by the idea of getting a treat.

  “If there is, then I will.”

  “Whatcha doing?”

  Jim legs screamed in agony as he jumped upwards. He clamped his mouth down hard, biting his tongue as he used every spare ounce of willpower not to scream out in pain, his muscles erupting in fire at the sudden movement. He looked towards the sound of the voice and saw a young man wearing military issue camouflage crouched five feet away from him, a half grin on his face.

  “What the hell, man!” Jim whispered. “Where did you come from, and how did you sneak up on me like that?”

  The young man, nineteen years old with a camouflage bandana tied around his head and a well-equipped military issue plate holder vest covering his fatigues, chuckled. “Yeah, I’m pretty quiet. Sorry, mister. I didn’t mean to scare you; it’s just a good idea to be quiet, especially around…” He jabbed a thumb off into the distance. “You know.”

  Jim looked around the corner to make sure the pack of zeds hadn’t heard him, and then looked back at the boy. “No harm done, I guess.”

  The young man stood and joined him, inching his head around the edge of the building to survey the scene. Thirty zeds surrounded the front of an abandoned storefront. They were spread apart, all facing the building. Most stood and rocked back and forth rhythmically. The few that were closest to the doors were more active; they stalked back and forth as they watched inside the windows. Occasionally one would run forward and slam into the exterior of the building. All of them had their backs to Jim and the young man. “Yeah, looks fine.” He looked at Jim and grinned. “I’m Riley. Who are you?”

  “Jim.”

  “I don’t recognize you, Jim. You live close by?”

  “No. About 30 kilometres away.”

  Riley whistled. “That’s a long way from home to be travelling alone.”

  “I didn’t start off alone. I was with six others, but we were attacked.”

  “They trapped in that building you been staring at for the past two hours?”

  “Two of them are, yeah.”

  “That explains the agitated group of zeds, I guess.” Riley pulled out a small notebook and flipped through the pages. “That building is an old variety store.”

  “Yeah. We were inside getting supplies. About halfway through loading up, a big group of zeds wandered close and spotted our lookout. Two of us managed to get the doors locked. The others died in the attempt.”

  “How did you end up outside?”

  “I was scouting other buildings.”

  “Well, if your plan is to get your friends out safe and sound, you got a bit of a problem. Those zeds aren’t as dumb as the ones we read about in books. They hang around and wait for their prey. Some do, anyway.” Riley nodded at the shoulder strap slung over Jim’s shoulder. “That all you got for a weapon?”

  Jim reached down to touch the stock of his hunting rifle. It was a bolt action, single shot antique rifle; a treasure in this new world, but no match for a charging group of insane monsters. “Yeah. I’ve been sitting here trying to figure out how to do it with only nine bullets.”

  “What you gonna do once you free your friends?”

  “Go home.”

  Riley slapped him lightly on the shoulder and smiled. “Well, champ, today is your lucky day.” He cupped his hands and made a bird-like call. A moment later, a similar call came from the rooftop to the right. Jim saw three ropes drop down and a group of young men began to rappel down the side of the building and make their way towards him. They were all dressed in the same military fashion as Riley. “The cavalry has arrived,” he said.

  As Riley’s group — eleven teenagers — got closer, Jim looked at the weapons they were carrying. Each soldier had a light gun that swung from a shoulder strap slung around their necks.

  “Those aren’t real guns.”

  “Depends who you are,” Riley said.

  “They look like paintball guns.”

  “Gold star for you, Jim,” Riley chuckled.

  “I
see no actual guns.”

  “You are a sharp one. I can see why they made you the scout.”

  “How can you help me without real weapons?”

  Riley smirked. “Who said we don’t have real weapons?”

  Teenagers with paintball guns, Jim thought. I’m gonna die.

  The group reached them and gathered around Riley. “All right, boys and girls.” Riley squatted down and began to draw squares into the dirt with a twig. “We got two friendlies holed up in the variety store over there and thirty zeds are hanging around to say hi to them. How many are in the back of the building?”

  “Another twenty,” someone said from the group. “Plus twenty-three more milling around on the sides.”

  Riley nodded and wrote the total number into the dirt. “Okay, seventy zeds in the theatre of operation.”

  Military terms and clothing. I wonder if someone professional is running their group from the top.

  “We have enough paint?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Of course we do,” Riley started drawing little circles and x’s in the dirt. “Here’s my plan. If anyone wants to finetune it when I’m done, say so.”

  Riley outlined his strategy and the group listened silently. He outlined the strategy and looked up. “What do you all think?”

  “Home run,” someone said from the group, and others voiced their agreement.

  “What do you want me to do?” Jim unslung his rifle and checked to make sure a round was chambered.

  “First thing I want you to do is put that old cannon down,” Riley pulled a pistol from a holster on his hip and offered it to Jim.

  “It’s a paintball pistol.”

  “Yeah. Here, let me show you how to use it.”

  “I know how to use it,” Jim pressed a button and released the clip, pulling it out and checking to make sure it was full of paintballs before sliding it deftly back into position. “You intend to run out and shoot these zeds with paintballs?”