The initial noise was stirring them into a frenzy, more desperate than ever to get inside. They sensed something, and instinct or hunger made them intensely focused to gain entry. Noise filled the house. Turning, she saw Sam making his way down the stairs, tears pouring down his cheeks, terrified.
“Upstairs! Hurry, get back upstairs!” She hollered at him.
Not looking to see if he was listening, she slid the couch over next to one of the windows, and using every bit of leg strength she had, tipped it up on end against the rattling window. Without hesitating, she rushed to the love seat and did the same to the next window over, only covering half of the opening.
The pounding at the door was much louder now.
Grabbing the heavy coffee table, she heaved it on top of the love seat, farther blocking the second window. She knew these blockades would only slow them, but she didn't know what else to do.
Turning, she saw Sam still standing part way down the stairs, a terrified look of shock on his face. Her chest tightened and heart raced at the thought of being overrun by the monstrosities they had looked down on the last few days. Images of Plinky, in her skin tight t-shirt, feeding on their lifeless corpses filled her mind.
It couldn’t come to this, Sam deserved so much more.
Kelly grabbed the bug-out backpacks she had laid at the bottom of the stairs and raced up toward Sam. “Come on honey, let’s get up to the bedroom.” The two of them sped up the stairs, headed for the bedroom and more importantly the shotgun.
******
It had been several days since the four of them made it back to the Unimog and left Hood River behind. Looking back, Tom was amazed that they had run into so few problems during those days. They saw very few undead or demented, making most of the trip up to this point uneventful, just the way he liked it.
Between wrecks in the way and foraging for gas, the travel had been slow going. Frequently they had to stop and move vehicles out of their way to be able to continue down the freeway. It was strange, there were stretches with no cars in sight and then they would hit a section of road that was packed with wreckage. Most of the time they were able to use the Unimog’s massive tires and four wheel drive to go off-road, bypassing road blocks all together, however with bridges and cement barriers, this was not always the case.
The four of them nearly had it down to a science at this point and as Tom squinted into the morning light, he said into the intercom, “Prep-up, wreck coming.”
Dropping his boots off the dash, Hank pulled his binoculars up to his eyes. His weathered face still had swollen red scratches that cracked and glistened as his face shifted to a grimace. “Looks like maybe a dozen rides. No movement.”
The pile of wrecked cars lay in the center of the bridge that crossed Hangman Creek. Tom slowed about a hundred yards out, the towering buildings of Spokane teasing him in the distance. A wide ravine dropped off steeply to the creek below.
“Maybe we should backtrack and skirt around the city.” Tom said.
“If it is anything like Hood River and the Tri-cities, it will be infested.” Hank replied.
“I know, I’m afraid that…”
Before he could finish, Hank said, “I’ve got movement.” He leaned forward, jaw shifting around as if that would help him see. “Far side of the cars…several…tough to make out but at least five people at the other end of the bridge.”
“Infected?” Tom asked as he slowed to a stop.
Over the intercom, Ben said, “What’s up, we yankin’ cars?”
“Hold for a bit, Hank spotted people and we’re assessing.”
Looking over at Hank, Tom asked, “Whatcha got?”
Never pulling the binoculars from his face, he replied, “Look infected. They aren’t really getting anywhere, just shuffling about.” Hearing a noise from outside, he set the binoculars on the dash and listened. “Hear that?”
At first Tom shook his head, not hearing anything other than the idling engine, but after listening intently for a few moments, a familiar noise could just be heard in the distance. “Chopper.”
“That’s right and unless my ears deceive me, it’s big.” Hank said.
Tom rolled down his window and listened. The distinct whump-whump-whump of a helicopter could be heard and was getting louder. Peering out the window, he could make out the insect like form flying low just north of their position. He reached over and grabbed the binoculars off the dash. Peering through the glass, he said, “It’s military.” Continuing to watch, he saw the helicopter repeatedly slow to a low hover before moving on in their direction. “It’s a Black Hawk.” He lowered the binoculars to his lap as they both continued to watch it approach.
“Should we signal them?” Hank asked.
Tom looked in his mirrors, checking the area, and then keyed the intercom. “We have an incoming chopper, grab your guns and hop out.” Reaching over, he grasped the M4 leaning against the seat next to Hank’s M24 rifle. “Let’s take a look.”
Stepping out onto the pavement, there was a slight breeze blowing across the bridge, bringing with it the stench of death. It was a mixture of rot, decay, and something worse, maybe sewage.
Looking to the back of the Unimog, he saw Rachael scrunching her nose from the stench while she scanned the area with her shotgun. Her trusty double barrel was lost in Hood River, but Tom had helped her with a more combat effective Mossberg 500. It was a simple weapon system that she was now very comfortable with and treated like her newborn baby.
Keeping his M4 shouldered, Tom walked to the front of the Unimog and looked up at the Black Hawk and then over to Hank. Leaning against the hood, he peered through his large rifle scope toward the end of the bridge. Tom looked back up and watched as the helicopter approached, nearly to the bridge. He raised one hand over his head and began a slow wave, hoping they would recognize him as alive and normal.
The Black Hawk slowed to a hover directly over the infected, the loud whump of rotors drowning out the Unimog’s idling engine. After sitting for a few seconds, it continued along the creek, occasionally stopping briefly before flying on.
Tom looked over to see Hank talking to him, but the words were drowned out by the engine’s noise. Walking over next to him, he said, “What?”
Hank shrugged his shoulders and said, “Crash Hawk had a couple pilots and at least four Joes in the cargo hold. Recon maybe.”
“I agree, definitely either looking for something or surveying the status of things. Good news is at least some of the military must be functional.”
“Maybe.”
Tom wondered what he meant by maybe, but decided not to go down that road right now. Looking over, he saw Rachael and Ben coming up next to him. Both of them had confused looks on their faces.
“What the hell was that…thought you said all the military would be gone?” Ben shouted over the idling engine.
The group ignored him, knowing from the past few days that any argument was a waste of breath. Tom had quickly learned that Ben found fault in everyone but himself and reveled in confrontation. He was the co-worker that sucked the fun out of a happy, laughing lunchroom just by walking in.
Hearing growls from somewhere in the trees just off the bank, Tom slapped the hood a couple times and said, “Let’s roll.”
“We movin these?” Ben asked while pointing over to the pile of cars.
“No, city’s a death trap, we’ll skirt around.” Tom replied, looking hard at Ben, ready for a confrontation. When none came, he turned back to the cab.
After maneuvering the large Unimog back the other direction, Tom turned to Hank and said, “What are your thoughts on the helo?”
Hank sat staring forward. After several minutes, Tom was beginning to wonder if the old timer had heard him, then he finally responded. “I’m not sure they’re on our side.”
“What makes you say that?” Tom asked as he drove up the ramp for Highway 2, ignoring the wrong way signs. The overpass gave an amazing view of the piled up cars, their
owners having tried to escape the city. Westbound lanes were packed with wrecked cars, some with undead trapped inside. There were others staggering amongst the wreckage.
“They had diggies on but no weapons. They were just looking out the sides. One looked right at me and had no interest in us.” Wrapping his knuckles against the window, he finished, “I know this is going to sound strange…but this reminds me of when FEMA comes rolling in days after a disaster to survey the damage.”
“Like checking on things, just seeing what state things are in.”
“Bingo.”
Tom continued to think on this while watching for a turn that would take them through the back roads that made their way around Spokane. Swerving through the mounting piles of cars that had tried to make their way to the airport, he found a turn that led north. He had only been out this way a couple of times, but figured as long as he was headed north they would be good.
Making their way through the turns, they began to get into rocky terrain surrounded by large Ponderosa pine trees. The trees made Tom feel like he was finally nearing home. Kelly and Sam are all right, they will be there, hunkered down, waiting for him. They had to be. His chest tightened and stomach churned just thinking about them.
After a long sweeping corner, they came up on a bridge, narrow and empty. There were several cars on the far side, parked off the edge of the road. Near the entrance to the bridge sat a large bread delivery truck. It was parked alongside the river, just off the road.
Tom slowed to a stop and sat idling.
“Yeah, looks suspicious.” Hank said, sensing Tom’s reluctance.
Hank grabbed the binoculars off the dash and began scanning the area. “No movement around the Bread Mobile.” He shifted the binoculars up, looking over the other end of the bridge for several seconds. “I've got nothing on the other side. Cars and trucks are parked, don’t appear wrecked. No movement.”
“Feels like an ambush.”
“Yip…I’m feeling mega-creepy tingles. Find another crossing?” Hank asked.
Tom sat thinking for a moment and then keyed the intercom. “Hey guys, we’re crossing a bridge…possible ambush. Be ready.” He turned over to Hank and said, “Ready?”
Hank grinned, “Hooah.”
“You are crazy, you know that.”
The engine rumbled as they accelerated onto the bridge. Tom could tell the bridge was narrow, but now that they were on it in the large Unimog, it seemed downright tiny.
“I’ve got movement.” Hank said as someone sat up inside a truck on the far side and several people stood from behind the cars. One of the trucks rumbled to life and pulled out, blocking the far side of the bridge. “Oh boy, crapstorm.”
Before even looking in his mirror, Tom knew the bread truck would be rolling in behind them, blocking the rear. A quick glance confirmed his thoughts. Looking forward, he saw several people holding rifles pointed in their direction. One of them, a large man wearing jeans and tan t-shirt, stepped out next to the rear of the truck. He held an AR15, pointed toward the sky.
Tom was amazed at how fast society collapsed to an “every man for himself" mentality in disasters. His mind flashed back to images of anarchy after hurricane Katrina. Chaos and lawlessness were opportunity for those that preyed on the weak.
Not me.
“Hang on.” Tom said before stomping on the gas. The Unimog was not made for speed, but it was several tons of steel barreling down the road. Tan shirt guy recognized this and raced off the bridge to the relative safety of the sidewalk. Over the rumble of the engine, Tom could hear the cracks of rifle fire. There were several loud tangs as bullets hit metal, but the shots quickly died away as the attackers sprinted for cover, not liking their odds in this game of chicken.
Nearing the end of the bridge, Tom was better able to get a look at those that wished to trap them. There were eight of them, plus however many set to block any retreat. They had the appearance of a rag tag group of misfits thrown together and controlled by the older man in the tan shirt. Based on the wide range of weapons and variety of clothing styles, Tom guessed they banded together solely on necessity and the ability to outnumber the weak.
Directly in front of their path were two trucks that had pulled nose to nose in hopes of blocking the Unimog in. With an incredible boom, the Unimog slammed head on into the joint of the two vehicles, sending them skidding out of the way. There was a jolt as the Unimog parted the trucks, sending shards of metal and glass flying through the air. The mog squeezed between the trucks, creating an ear piercing shriek of metal on metal.
As quickly as they hit the trucks they were through and out the other side of the make shift road block. The sounds of weapon fire returned. Thick smoke began to pour from the sides of the engine compartment.
Ahead, the road split into a ‘T’. They were traveling fast. Tom attempted to feather the brakes and crank the steering wheel to the left, swinging wide. The chirp of squealing tires filled the air. More bullets slammed into the metal sides as they skidded around the corner. Loud hissing came from somewhere under the hood.
Hank looked in his mirror and shouted, “They’re comin’. Two cars.”
Tom hammered back down on the accelerator. The engine groaned with the demand, like a stubborn mule, but with a shudder the Unimog gained speed.
Over the intercom came Rachael’s voice, desperate and scared. “We have smoke…vents…it’s pouring out of the vents.”
Keying the intercom, Tom shouted back, “Grab the packs and whatever weapons you can, we’re gonna have to find a stop. Two on our tail, be ready.”
Hank reached over, grabbing his M24.
Tom scanned the sides of the road ahead, but found only rocky outcroppings and large pine trees. Glancing in his mirror, he saw the two cars right behind them, one of the passengers firing a pistol out the window. Knowing how hard it was to shoot out of a moving vehicle, Tom was not too worried.
Rounding the next corner, Tom finally saw what he was looking for. Just off the road sat a two story white house with a matching picket fence surrounding it. Without hesitation, he veered the Unimog off the pavement, blowing apart a huge section of fence. Foot still on the gas, he shouted into the intercom, “Hold on!” just before they slammed directly into the front of the house.
The impact was more intense than any of them could have imagined. In a brilliant flash, wood and debris exploded inward, a white cloud of particles filling the view. Tom recoiled as the window disintegrated into thousands of glittering shards of glass, stinging his exposed skin. The Unimog came to an abrupt stop when it slammed into a central stairway that led to the upper floor. Smoke and a cloud of particles blocked the morning sunlight, shrouding the cab in darkness.
After shutting off the rumbling engine, a creepy silence filled the interior, interrupted only by occasional creaks and groans from the stressed structure. Thick smoke continued to billow out from under the crumpled hood. The near silence was broken by the hum of car engines.
Looking over at Hank, he said, “We gotta move.”
Thick blood oozed from a gash in Hank’s forehead. Hank turned and reached back down for his rifle. The muscles in his arm were not listening properly to his brain and continually missed the rifle, before finally awkwardly grasping the barrel.
Grabbing his M4, Tom pounded at the crumpled door to get the twisted metal open. The hinges groaned reluctantly, opening half way before binding up. Squeezing through the opening, he squinted in the darkness, trying to see back through the opening. Slivers of light filtered in through the haze.
The sound of slamming car doors and shouts could be heard from somewhere outside.
Raising his M4 to his shoulder, he started slowly working toward the rear of the Unimog and the faint light. Smoke continued to billow out from the crippled vehicle, stinging his eyes and blocking his vision. Voices filtered in, interrupted by occasional groans from sagging beams. Debris continued to fall to the ground with dull thuds.
Gunfire eru
pted from outside. The intensity caused Tom to stagger back several steps.
“Rachael! Ben!” He shouted.
Nothing.
The unmistakable zing of a bullet flew inches from his head. Diving and rolling to the side he got away from the Unimog and hopefully any stray shots.
From somewhere inside the Unimog’s camper came the crack of return fire. The shots were erratic, sounding of panic.
Racing through the smoke and darkness, Tom looked for the front door. Not seeing well, he ran head first into the small half circle window that sat at the top of the door.
His throat and lungs burned from the acrid smoke.
Pulling the door open, Tom was finally able to suck in a breath of sweet, fresh air. His dark-accustomed eyes stung from the sudden bright light. Crouching low to make a small target while his eyes adjusted, he waited a few beats, squinting into the brightness. The inset entranceway was set back far enough to block his view of both cars and the assailants.
The cracks of gunfire continued out front.
Easing up next to a large shrub at the corner of the entryway, Tom leaned out, sighting through the small 3x red-dot scope mounted to his M4. The two mid-sized cars were pulled nose to nose, parallel to the house. He quickly counted five attackers, all of them narrowly focused on the gunfight in front of them. They were making one of the biggest mistakes in a firefight – not watching their flanks.
And it was time to make them pay.
Tom hesitated for a moment, not liking that these were neither demented nor undead. They were clearly enemy combatants and that was enough. He centered the red dot on the head of a man that stood firing an AK47 and pulled the trigger. The side of his face disappeared in a pink mist. Everyone was so focused that none of them noticed the shot.
Before making this first shot, he had decided on the order of his targets. A large man holding a hunting rifle was sighting through a scope, calmly waiting for a good shot. Tom pulled the trigger again, dropping the rifleman.
The Demented Z (Book 1):The Demented Page 15