The Demented Z (Book 1):The Demented

by Derek J. Thomas

  “Mommy?” Sam said.

  His soft voice brought her back. We have to get out of here. She knew it immediately and without question, if they stayed, they died.

  Just as she started to spin toward Sam, movement caught her eye. Turning back, she saw one of the demented at the bottom of the stairs, standing, and staring at her. She stood, frozen, unable to move. Her world went silent, as if frozen in time. Neither of them budged. He stood still, his flannel shirt covered in grime, blood dripping from his mangled knuckles. It was as if the demented was waiting for her to move, to know she was real.

  “Mommy.” Sam repeated in a whisper-shout.

  This was the bursting of the dam. The last piece of concrete that held back the flood. With incredible speed Flannel began racing up the stairs, two at a time, while growling with rage. His arms stretched out in front of him, reaching for her, finally finding the prey he had desired for so long. Below him the downstairs had erupted into a cascade of shrieks and growls. They all sensed it, they all knew.

  Spinning back around, Kelly lifted the shotgun to her shoulder, and the second she had a bead on Flannel, she pulled the trigger. With a deafening boom the shot hit him square in the chest, sending him toppling over backwards and landing at the base of the stairs.

  Before she had time to assess what just happened, two more of them were leaping over Flannel and racing up the stairs. Behind her, over the ringing in her ears, she heard Sam screaming for her, sobbing and terrified. Racking the pump she chambered another round. With another boom she hit the first one in the head, tearing away a huge chunk of its face. Another pump, another boom, and the next one collapsed backwards onto the others. More were coming, she could see them just coming into view.

  “Sam! Get back in my room!”

  She chambered another round, firing at the next face that entered her view. Never registering that it was Plinky until she saw her bloodied pink shirt lying across the stairs, Kelly racked another round. Watching in horror, she saw Plinky struggling to rise to her feet. Lifting her face and chest off the stairs with her one remaining arm, she trembled and shrieked at Kelly. Pointing the shotgun directly at Plinky’s head, she pulled the trigger and watched her topple over backwards, only a red mist remaining in the air.

  More growls emanated from somewhere downstairs. She quickly began backpedaling away from the stairs, trying to get back to her room and Sam. Hearing footsteps pounding on the stairs, she turned and ran for the open door. Rushing through the doorway, she turned and slammed the door closed behind her, locking it. Throwing the shotgun on the bed, she ran over to the large dresser and pushed it in front of the closed door.

  Turning around, she saw Sam curled up in the fetal position, lying in the corner. His bulging, superhero backpack looking grossly out of place.

  With a loud boom, one of the demented slammed into the door. Another boom, and then another as demented continued to pound relentlessly at her last line of defense. She looked out the window and saw several of them were gathered in the lawn below, staring up at her, drawn to the noise.

  She knew the defense shotgun had two rounds left. She looked down at Sam. Could it have come to this?

  Chapter 12: Hell

  When he first awoke, Tom had no idea where he was or how he had gotten there. His face and head stung with intense pain. Each beat of his heart was like a hammer blow to his skull, shooting pain through his brain and into his eyes.

  Fighting through the agony, he slowly opened his eyes, squinting into the blurry darkness. He found himself in a small room surrounded by shelves, their contents shrouded in inky blackness. Directly in front of him was a door with a sliver of light sneaking under the bottom. He was in some kind of utility closet or small storage room.

  Screams erupted from somewhere beyond the door.

  It all came back to him in a flash - the hill, the subdivision, the lake…and the dirt bags that took them. He wondered if it was Rachael he heard screaming. He tried to pull his hands out from behind his back but found that they were zip tied to the shelving. The connection was down low, nearly touching the cement floor, making it impossible for him to get to his feet.

  Sitting still, he listened intently. Between screams he could hear muffled voices, shouting, and maybe laughter. They sounded far off, maybe several walls away, making their words unintelligible. Whoever was screaming sounded terrified…and maybe angry.

  His thoughts flashed to his encounter with Big Mike. He was sending some of his goons north, to his home, to Kelly and Sam. How long was I out? Had they already gotten home? Are those Kelly’s screams? He had to get out of this damn room.

  He had tried enough times and seen others try enough times to know that the zip ties would never be broken by brute force and were much tougher than one would expect. Using his fingers, he felt the edge of the shelving and found it was thin metal. It was not very sharp, but it would have to do. Pulling up with his arms, he began rapidly sliding his hands from side to side, scraping the plastic across the metal, over and over. Hot pain stung his wrists as the hard plastic dug into flesh. Gritting his teeth, he continued the sawing motion, his muscles straining.

  He froze as shadows filtered in under the door, their vague form shifting through the yellow light. Someone stood just outside. Tom held his breath, not wanting to make a noise. His heard pounded so hard he was sure it could be heard outside the room. After a few moments the shadows shifted out of the light. Continuing to listen, he heard metal scraping on concrete followed by a soft creak and a sigh. Then came the unmistakable shick- shick of a lighter.

  He should have known they would keep a guard watching him. Keeping him alive was actually a bit of surprise, but he was glad they underestimated him.

  As quietly as possible, he went back to sawing at his bindings, clenching his teeth to keep from grunting with pain and exertion. After several minutes his hands popped free with a snap. Reaching in front of him, he rubbed the throbbing pain out of his wrists. His wrists were slick with either blood or sweat, it was too dark to know.

  Suppressing the urge to rush out, fight off his captors, and save whomever he could, Tom instead took a few calming breaths and began looking through the shelves. Even in the darkness there was just enough faint light to make out most of the objects and it was clear that he was in a small janitorial closet. Toilet paper, rags, cleaners, and other odds and ends littered the shelves. In a corner leaned a variety of brooms and mops. Not the massive arsenal he hoped for.

  Intense, muffled screams echoed from somewhere outside the door, reminding Tom that time was critical.

  Reaching out, he grabbed one of the wooden brooms and then stepped back away from the door, squatting low. Kicking hard at the contents of one of the shelves, a slew of items toppled to the floor, clanking and banging loudly in the small space. He let out several soft grunts and then sat still, watching the base of the door. Almost immediately he could hear the shuffling of feet on concrete. Shadows filtered under the door. Still grasping the broom, Tom let out a soft moan and then knocked a paint can from the shelf.

  From the other side of the door he could hear the guard working the slide on a pistol, chambering a round. Tom silently eased his way over to the side of the door. He was surprised to see the doorknob start rotating…they hadn’t even locked it. Tensing, he prepared for the fight to come.

  The door came swinging inward, filling the narrow space with bright light. Despite the stinging brightness, Tom stepped forward, knowing he only had the briefest of moments before the guard saw he was no longer bound to the shelf. The guards eyes went wide, his gun held to his side, clearly not expecting Tom to be free.

  Using the end of the broom handle like a spear he rammed it directly into the thug’s throat, crushing his windpipe. He opened his mouth to scream but nothing came out. Tom saw him beginning to raise his pistol in defense, so he whipped the broom down cracking it against the guard’s wrist. Falling from his grip the pistol clattered to the cement. Not wanting to let up
for a second, Tom brought the broom back up and cracked it across the guard’s face, splintering the wooden handle in two. Using the splintered end, he rammed it into the guard's exposed throat. Before the guard could topple to the floor, Tom grabbed him by the arms and swung him through the open doorway into the utility room. Tom quickly scooped up the pistol and closed the door.

  Looking left and right, he found himself in the wide hallway of what could only be a school. Along the hall were large bulletin boards, void of papers, out for the summer. Both sides were dotted with lockers, broken up by classroom doors. The thin carpet was stained with blood, a scene that never belonged in a school.

  Following the sounds of shouting, he worked his way along the hall, away from the double doors that surely lead outside. As he got deeper into the school, the voices grew louder, interrupted occasionally by shrill screams. Glancing back, he saw the twin doors far down the empty hall.

  Nearing an open set of double doors that he guessed led to a gymnasium, the sounds became very loud. Sneaking up to the opening, Tom eased his head out into the doorway, fearing what he might see. Daylight spilled in from large windows that sat up high on the wall, surrounding a large basketball court. From the looks of things, the group had been amassing a variety of supplies. Filling the near side of the gym were stacks of boxes, most appeared to be food, but he also saw water, toiletries, and a variety of other everyday items. At the far end of the large space Tom could just see the tops of people’s heads over the boxes. Watching for several seconds, he counted at least eight people, none of which he recognized as friendlies.

  Needing to get closer, he ran in a half crouch over to the nearest stack of boxes, keeping his head low. Holding his pistol out in front, he began slowly working his way through the stacks, drawing nearer to the screams. They were pained and sounding of exhaustion.

  He was just beginning to make out some of the words people were shouting. The cavernous space distorted their words, but he could still distinguish a variety of vulgarities and lewd comments. Most of it was the typical garbage you would hear from a bunch of pumped up, testosterone filled guys, but there was also a darker, more sinister side to the shouting.

  Trying to keep his breathing calm and heart rate down, while also rushing to get to the front as quickly as possible was very challenging. In the back of his mind he could picture Rachael or Kelly tied up and surrounded by brutes, taunting, hurting, and doing even worse to them. The thoughts alone filled him with rage, his head flushed with anger.

  Nearing the far end of the gym, he saw Hank sitting up against the bleachers along the wall. His head was drooped down, chin resting on his chest, covered in dried blood. His arms wrapped around his back, likely bound to each other or the bleachers. Soaked in crimson stains, it looked like he had taken a savage beating. Motioning with one hand, Tom tried to get Hank’s attention, but he never budged. After a few tries, Tom ran in a half crouch over to the edge of the boxes, getting as close to Hank as possible. It only took a quick glance to see that he was out of commission. Tom was relieved to see that his chest still moved rhythmically with each breath.

  Focusing his attention back toward the group, he dodged through the last few stacks so that he could get a good view of what was going on. He was horrified to see a frail looking young woman, barely clothed, bound to a large picnic table. Several of the thugs surrounded her, taunting her, and groping at her exposed flesh. They would all laugh and continue to prod at her, thrilling in her torture. Tears streamed down her face. Her energy was clearly drained and she only occasionally let out a meek scream or mumbled resistance. Rachael was nowhere to be seen.

  He recognized one of the men from earlier, when they were captured at the lake. His camo pants were resting at his ankles, exposing his white underwear, partially covered by his hanging belly. Standing to the side of the girl, he made vulgar, gyrating motions with his hips, while all the men around him laughed and shouted encouragement.

  No longer fearing for his own safety, his anger overcoming him, Tom stepped toward the group, pistol raised. Mentally prioritizing his targets, he began with those that were fully clothed and closest to a row of weapons he saw leaning against the wall. Aiming center mass, he squeezed the trigger, hitting his first target square in the back. The shot sounded hollow, echoing through the large space.

  Their reaction was slow. Only a few even began to turn toward the source of the noise.

  Shifting his sights over to the next target, Tom sent another round. Not even watching the bodies fall, he continued to acquire targets, rapidly squeezing the trigger without mercy.

  The men slowly realized a threat existed and it was not just one of their members screwing around. Everything was happening so fast. Noticing their comrades dropping to the floor, they began to realize what was happening.

  Tom fired off several more rapid shots, the acrid smell of cordite clinging to the air as more men dropped to the wood floor.

  A flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye.

  Swinging rapidly to the side, he found one of the thugs standing just to the side of a stack of boxes. The large man was sighting down an AK47. The muzzle flashed.

  Beginning to crouch while bringing his pistol to bear, there was a sharp crack as the AK's bullet flew over his shoulder, inches from his head. Two rapid trigger pulls dropped the man to the floor.

  Turning back to the group, he saw that four men remained. Two of them were racing for the rifles that leaned on the wall. Next to the girl stood the other two, both of which had their pants around their ankles and were frozen with fear. Ignoring them, Tom turned his pistol on the others and with a couple rapid shots they both dropped, crashing into the wall, guns clattering to the floor.

  Tom turned back to the two remaining dirt bags, seeing one of them frozen in place and the other had fell over his pants trying to get away and now lay face down, clawing at the floor trying to drag himself away. They were so tough when all they had to deal with was a young woman bound to a table. Now they just looked pathetic.

  Noticing that his pistol shook from the built up adrenaline, Tom lowered it to his side, staring the standing man in the face.

  “Please.” The man stammered, nearly in tears. Urine ran down the inside of his legs, forming a growing puddle at his feet.

  Tom took several rapid steps forward, eating up the span between them, and then raised his pistol and slammed the butt against the man’s temple. He crumpled to the floor. Next to him, the girl lay still, droplets of blood dotted her face, standing in stark contrast to her ashen skin. The look in her eyes said it all – her spirit was crushed and spent.

  Still crawling away, the last man could be heard sobbing and mumbling something under his breath.

  Tom walked over to him, pointing his pistol down at the man’s head. “I'll give you one chance.”

  The man stopped crawling and instead just stared at the floor.

  “Where is Rachael? Where is the woman I was with?”

  Flopping over onto his back, the man said, “Don’t kill me…please, just…”

  Tom shoved the muzzle of his pistol onto the man’s forehead causing the man to cry out in pain as it burned his skin. “Where?” He shouted.

  “Locked up…Lincoln locked her up until he gets back.” His eyes glanced to the woman at the table. “Gave us her.”

  Tom wanted to stomp on the man’s balls and give him a speech on respect, but knew it was a waste of energy. “Where is she?” He repeated.

  “Down the hall. Principal’s office.”

  “Where is Lincoln?”

  “Went with the group to your place, Patterson thought he knew where it was. Five of them…Big Mike, Mikey, Trips, Lincoln and Patterson. Left awhile ago.”

  “How long?” Tom asked.

  Shrugging his shoulders a bit, the sobbing man said, “Maybe twenty minutes.”

  “Where are we?”

  “A middle school…north side of Spokane.”

  Tom did some quick calc
ulations and figured if they were able to drive straight to his house, they would be there in less than thirty minutes. He had to hurry. “Where are cars…keys?

  Pointing back to the other side of the gym, the man said, “Out front…we leave the keys in ‘em.”

  Stepping over to one of the bodies lying on the floor, Tom pulled a knife from the dead man’s belt pouch. Working quickly, he cut the ropes that bound the woman. He then handed her the pistol and said, “Shoot him if he moves.” Tom then raced over to Hank and used the knife to cut him loose as well.

  He was glad to see that Hank had regained consciousness. “You look like crap.” Tom said.

  Barely audible, Hank mumbled, “Feel like a million bucks.”

  Leaving him for now, Tom sprinted back over to the woman and used the ropes to tie the two men to the same table she had been tied to. He wasn’t sure what they deserved, but now that his anger had subsided and the woman was safe, he knew he could not just kill them in cold blood. Not wanting to give a big speech, Tom said, “We’re leaving. I imagine you have a few hours, maybe more before your dead friends turn and come over to feed on you. They may not, and either way it’s more than you deserve.”

  Fear in his eyes, the man turned to look at the bodies lying around him and began to say, “Please don’t, you can’t leave me here with them. I will…” but Tom had already tuned him out and moved on.

  Looking to the woman, “I am going to find my friend that was with us, and then head north to my family. You can come with us.”

  She shook her head while putting her clothes on. “I'm going south. I have family there.”

  Not sure how to put it, Tom instead went with the straightforward approach and said, “They're likely dead…or worse.”

  “I could say the same about your family.”

  Tom simply nodded, unable to argue.

  Sprinting over to the guns that now lay scattered at the base of the wall, Tom quickly grabbed a couple AK47s and a few spare mags from a pile on one of the tables. “I’m moving out. Good luck to you and your family.”