Sarah stayed behind a tree for a moment trying to hear the bandits' conversation, but the wind had started to pick up and muffled their voices behind its shrill wail. She set her crutches against the trunk and made her way through the snow ahead a few yards up to the last tall ash tree before the road.
"They smashed through the glass!" Sarah heard one of the bandits say as she leaned against the back of the tree and turned her ear in their direction. "Hundreds of 'em!"
"What happened?" another bandit asked. "What brought 'em there?"
"The alarm went off all of a sudden," the first bandit said. "The boss told Dugan to shut it off, but it didn't stop! Then all the power went out. And that's when he came."
"Who?"
"Fuck if I know!" the bandit said, his voice starting to shake. "He had long black hair and a knife. I think he was wearing a brown jacket or something... I don't know. And he..."
"What?"
The bandit struggled. "...he had this smile on his face. I can't even describe it. He was smiling the whole time, like he was enjoying it. Sick fuck, I'm telling you..."
"And nobody got him?" the other bandit asked.
Sarah leaned around the tree and saw the top of someone's head just peeking over the roof of the Chevy's charred shell. The bandit leaned back in his chair and came into view.
"No," he said, rubbing a hand through his short and messy hair. There were cuts and bruises on his face. "Everyone was too busy trying to get away from the zombies. That crazy son of a bitch just snuck through the place stabbing everyone like he was havin' the time of his life."
"And where were you?"
"Tryin' to get the fuck outta there! The zombies were pouring in through the exits, so we were trapped. Had to crawl out an air shaft to get out of there! The whole thing was burning down when I got out, and I ain't see nobody else there with me. I think I was the only one."
"I'd kill the son of a bitch, I ever see him," the other bandit said hidden behind the Chevy. "Cut him open and pull his insides out real slow."
Suddenly he stood up and Sarah saw a gaunt face with a scratchy brown beard coming out of it, sallow eyes and a long scar running the length of his bald head. He looked around at the other bandits hidden behind the car for a moment, then he turned and looked at Sarah.
Sarah pulled her head back from beside the tree and tried to constrict her body behind the trunk as much as possible.
"Be right back," she heard the bandit say. "Gotta take a leak."
Footsteps crunched in the snow, coming toward her. Sarah leaned against the tree, facing it with her hands pressed against it. She couldn't see him coming, but the sounds slipping through the gaps in the howling wind were like the tolls of a bell marking her death. The crunches were slow and almost deliberate; taunting.
Sarah looked back at the crutches leaning against the tree farther into the forest. The ends of them could be seen sticking out at the bottom, and it was nighttime, but the blanket of snow created a playground for the moonlight to splash around and light things that Sarah would've rather not had lit.
The footsteps stopped suddenly a few yards away. It was as if he noticed something in front of him. After a moment, the footsteps started again, and they were coming straight for her.
Sarah cringed, not even daring to glance behind her anymore in case part of her became visible behind the tree. She wanted to run, but she knew she couldn't. She was defenseless.
Then she heard a zipper followed by some fidgeting, then the splash of urine hitting the other side of the tree.
The bandit let out a loud sigh as he placed one hand against the trunk. "Aw, yeah," he muttered to himself.
Sarah held her breath.
Just then, a strong gust of wind flew by and made the corners of the blanket wrapped around her flap crazily to the side.
The stream of urine stopped.
Sarah pressed her forehead to the tree to balance herself and quickly grabbed the corners of the blanket, holding them tight to her midsection.
The bandit looked around, confused. He started peeing again, emptying out the rest of his bladder and giving himself a shake before stuffing his penis back in his dirty blue jeans. He turned and headed back for the fire.
When he was far enough away, Sarah pushed herself off the tree and hobbled back to her crutches, a knot of fear in her chest just starting to unravel. In her franticness to get away, she swiped at the crutches with a trembling hand, and her fingers slipped on the metal, knocking them over instead of grabbing them. They tipped and clattered against each other in the snow and caused a racket.
The bandit had reached the campfire before spinning around and peering toward the woods. "What was that?" he said aloud.
Sarah dove down for the crutches, scooping them up as quickly as possible and scurrying away along the ground.
"What was what?" another bandit said.
The bandit who had taken a piss continued to stare where Sarah had been. "I don't know," he said to the others. "Must just be the wind." He shook his head as his eyes softened, then he sat back down with the others and they continued their conversation.
Sarah fled back into the woods in sort of a half-run, half-bear walk. When she was far enough away, she stopped, catching her breath and glancing behind her to see if she had been followed. She calmed down, getting back to her feet and brushing the snow off her. Her hands were freezing and she bundled them up tight under the blanket. Her shoes had been falling apart for years, and they weren't meant for the snow, causing it to soak through to her socks. Her feet felt like popsicles and the chill ran up her body. She shoved the crutches under her arms and continued to follow the killer's footsteps.
His blood still trickled along, though it seemed to be getting a little bit lighter the farther she went. The wind howled through the barren trees as the ground dipped and climbed, becoming an uneven wilderness of hills and valleys. It was hard enough to get through on her crutches, but the snow made her slip, and she took a few plunges on her way, getting up and brushing herself off before continuing, a little bit slower each time.
Sarah struggled up a steep hill, resorting to crawling up the rest of the way and dragging her crutches behind her. She crested it and collapsed onto her stomach, taking a moment to rest. When she looked up, the ground evened out ahead and a clearing told her she had reached the edge of the woods. She felt like she had been climbing more than she'd been descending, and she saw that the ground ended in a cliff about fifty yards away, overlooking the landscape.
A house of old and faded wood stood in front of her. It was like a tarnished gem hidden in the wilderness. Faint traces of paint clung onto shutters next to the windows. Most of it had been peeled off by the weather a long time ago. The roof was shallow with only a slight ridge in the middle, and the shingles were worn and ripped. Some boards on the face of the house had come off their nails, sagging or missing. A short porch ran along the front with some old filthy patio furniture tipped over under an awning. A lopsided wooden door marked the entrance in the middle, and two windows sat in the face of the house on either side, the glass caked with grime. And inside, softly cutting through the darkness, there was an orange light.
Sarah got to her feet, her body shivering. She moved slowly on her crutches, at first skirting around at the edge of the ash trees surrounding the property and sizing the place up like a cautious deer spotting something through a clearing.
A shed sat near the back of the property on the left side of the house that looked even more run-down. Two beige metal doors stood in front of it, coated along the edges with rust. One of them had been pulled back a little, revealing darkness inside.
The killer's footsteps had led up to the front door of the house, and Sarah knew he was in there. She came around to the side and saw that same orange glow peeking out of a window near the back corner.
She carefully made her way up to the house, staying low and hunched over, trying to keep out of sight from any of the windows. She reached the f
ront corner on the side and moved along the splintered wood. The light coming from the window ahead was stronger than it had been viewing the house from the front.
The wind was still strong and a sudden gust passed her, gliding along the side of the house and causing the glass sitting in the windowsill to rattle. When Sarah reached the edge of it, she leaned over on her crutches just enough to see inside.
A candle sat on a counter, the flame dancing softly on the wick and basking the room in a gentle glow. The edge of the sink came into view as she leaned her head over farther, and she knew she was looking at the bathroom. The yellowed porcelain was stained with splotches of blood, made into a vibrant red in the candlelight. The mirror above the sink came into view next, and so did the killer.
Sarah shot back, startled. She crouched down for a moment, listening to the breeze sweep by and shake the window. She got up slowly and peeked back inside.
The killer stood in front of the sink looking at himself in the mirror. His hands were covered in blood, as were his lips and his chin. His hand shook as he raised it to his mouth, prying into his own mouth with his thick fingers. He looked weak, like he was about to collapse. His face was expressionless, not smiling nor showing any signs of being afflicted by the damage that he had been. The two nails had already been removed from between the knuckles in his hand, leaving bloody punctures. He slowly opened his mouth and a dribble of blood ran down his chin, dropping onto his brown jacket. He turned his head and Sarah could see the nail driven through the side of his cheek in the mirror. The killer gripped onto the pointed end of it inside his mouth and pushed it out. His cheek popped out like a tent as the nail slowly slid through the hole. He grabbed onto the head of it with his other hand and yanked it out, dropping it into the sink. He looked at his reflection and prodded the hole in his cheek with his tongue, watching a trickle of blood come out of it.
The whole scene was disgusting and grisly, but Sarah had a hard time looking away. She spied on him as he lifted his arm and started to pull a nail out of his elbow, then she backed away from the window. She looked around the snowy property, trying to decide what to do. She could tell that he was badly injured and weak, and there would be no better time to finish the job than now. But she was weak too, and the trek from the hospital had nearly made her pass out. If she was going to do this, she would need to catch him by surprise and she would need to be armed.
The dilapidated shed stood out ahead. It was about twenty yards past the house, and it looked like she would be able to get to it without the killer seeing her through the window. Sarah didn't know what she would find inside, but it was her best chance of finding a weapon.
She laid her crutches down on the ground and got onto her hands and knees. She crawled underneath the window, passing the corner of the house before standing up, then she hobbled on her good ankle over to the shed, glancing over her shoulder as she went, paranoid that he would suddenly pop his head out the window.
The doors to the shed looked badly rusted and she knew they would squeal if she tried to open them any further, but one of them was open a little more than a foot, and it would be enough for her to squeeze through.
There was nothing to light the dark interior of the shed and see what was around, so she knew she would be relegated to picking whatever was visible in the moonlight's glow near the open door or blindly feeling around in the darkness—something she wasn't keen on.
She slipped through the doors into the shed and let her eyes adjust to the darkness a bit. There was a workbench sitting against the wall next to one door. A pegboard was nailed on the wall above it with a small collection of old rusty tools hanging from hooks. The selection was sparse, and she passed over a couple trowels, some screwdrivers, and a hammer before deciding on the ice pick that sat almost invisible in the fading light from outside.
Sarah pulled it out of its hook and inspected its point. The metal was just as rusted as the other tools, but that wouldn't matter. What mattered was how well it would stab, and its tip was still very sharp.
She left the shed, careful not to touch the doors as she squeezed through, and she made her way back to the corner of the house, crawling under the window to the other side where she left her crutches. She waited next to the house, still wrapped in her blanket from the hospital and gripping the ice pick tightly in her cold hand. Doubt and indecision flooded her mind as she tried to decide how to attack him. She knew she couldn't do it through the window, and if she tried to enter the house, he would hear the creaking floorboards a mile away. Despite how weak he was, she would still need to get the element of surprise over him if she hoped to kill him.
Still unsure, she decided to peek in the window again to see what he was doing. She stood up and leaned over just enough to see inside.
The killer stared at her. He stood right in front of the window facing her, his face still a bloody, horrific mess. His eyes were blank, and then slowly, the corners of his mouth twisted up into a weak smile.
Sarah yelped and staggered away from the window, landing on her butt in the cold, wet snow.
The killer disappeared from the window and she could hear faint movements through the house as he made his way to the front door.
She got to her feet and picked up her crutches, tucking them under her arm as she turned and hobbled back for the woods.
The door at the front of the house burst open and the killer came out, marching after her.
Sarah looked over her shoulder as she ran, still holding the ice pick, terrified he would catch up to her.
The killer's face was painted in his waxy smile, his eyes wide with excitement. But his leg wobbled suddenly and then gave out, and he fell onto one knee. He leaned forward, putting his hands in the snow, and pushed himself back up. He took an uncertain step forward and his legs wobbled again. Finally, he remained still, just watching Sarah as she disappeared into the woods as far away from him as she could get.
20
Hunting Party
The tall trees gently swayed overhead as the wind swept through the woods. Everything else was calm and unmoved, the snow glistening peacefully in the moonlight. Far off, a squirrel scampered through the snow as if it were diving into a pool, searching for food.
Sarah ran through the snow, tripping on something underneath and falling onto her hands and knees. The crutches she'd tucked under her arm spilled out and she panted like her lungs were on fire. The crisp and chilly air licked her cheeks and her hands, and though her chest burned, she was still freezing. She had broken up the peaceful scene that nature had created around her, though there was no one else around to observe the disturbance. In a way it almost seemed silly to her when she noticed how quiet it was that she had been running for her life. But she knew exactly what she was running from, and she continued to look behind her to see if he was following.
There was no sign of him, and she had reached a safe distance away. She rolled onto her back, bringing the blanket over her head and scrunching the edges in tight balls between her fists, clutching it to her chest. Her feet were starting to become numb and she just wanted to lie by a nice warm fire. She still had the ice pick in her hand and she let go of it. It rolled off her fingertips and buried into the snow, creating a perfect shape of itself like in a cartoon.
There was one chance and only one chance to end the killer's reign of terror, and the ship sailed. Though he was badly injured, he certainly wasn't down for the count. But she couldn't do it on her own. She considered fleeing far, far away after she caught her breath. Maybe she could create enough distance from him before he was in any shape to stalk her again and maybe she would be able to disappear, never to be troubled by the killer again. She had no idea how he had continued to find her in the first place; no matter where she went, even if she didn't think she was being followed, there he was. And she knew he would be there again, no matter what.
Sarah closed her eyes, squeezing her palms to them. She could feel a bad headache coming on and she knew the press
ure was getting to her. Just like the killer, it was a pervasive evil, always following and lying in wait at the edge of her consciousness. She racked her brain, trying to figure out what to do, but came up short.
A gust of wind blew through the trees above her and carried a voice with it.
Her ears perked up.
Faint and distant voices floated to her and she realized that she had almost made it back to the bandits camping in the middle of the road. She flared her nostrils and the smoky, sweet scent of burning wood filled them. And just as suddenly as the sensations came to her, so too did the answer to her problem.
Sarah picked up the crutches and got back to her feet. She propped them under her armpits and made sure the blanket was wrapped tightly around her, then she headed toward the voices and the smell and the almost pulsating orange glow that soon became visible in the distance.
When she reached the edge of the woods by the road, she had come from a slightly different angle than before, and she could see past the Chevy into the circle around the fire. It seemed half of the bandits that she had seen or heard before had left, with only three remaining. One of them was standing up, cradling his AK-47 behind his neck like a pool cue.
"I'm going to hit the hay," the bandit said, looking down at another sitting in a plaid lawn chair.
The one sitting in the chair glanced over to another bandit beside him and said, "Yeah, I think it's time to pack it in for the night."
The three of them chatted for a couple minutes before grabbing their guns and a couple of supplies and taking them to a rest stop on the other side of the road.
The last bandit that remained behind scooped up handfuls of snow from the ground and dumped them on the fire. The flames flickered violently with the first dumps of snow as a cloud of smoke rose up from the burning wood, then it went out completely with a final dousing. The bandit had only a pistol on his hip, and he stopped to pick up a small green box before joining the others inside the washrooms of the rest stop.
Zombie Apocalypse Series Books 1-3 (Zombie Apocalypse Series Box Set) Page 64