Sarah tried to move her body, avoiding the areas where the killer had bludgeoned her with the baseball bat. She ached, but she didn't think anything had been broken—miraculously.
The stench of burnt materials wafted through the air, and the worst of it was the charred chemical fumes coming out of her winter coat. She stood up and removed it, feeling the pain run through the length of her arms right to her fingertips. She dropped the coat on the floor and staggered forward, glancing into the destroyed blood lab. Small fires continued to burn, but they were isolated to nonflammable materials and seemed like they were starting to peter out.
The weight of the books taped to her pulled her down, and her legs were already too tired and shaky to support her own weight let alone the excess. It took Sarah a long time, but she pulled off each row of books in long lines of tape. She removed them from her arms and from her legs under her jeans, running her fingers over the knife gouges in some of them, marveling at how they had actually saved her life.
She wandered over to the nearby block of patient rooms, searching them until she found a thick and suitable blanket to wrap around herself. Searching further, she found a pair of crutches to use and take the strain off her bad ankle.
When she came out into the hallway again, her eyes came across the trail of blood that the killer had left. She wanted to think that he left and he would never come back, but she knew that was a fantasy. She was surprised to see him so badly injured and that he, too, was human. But he would be back just as soon as he could heal his wounds.
Sarah deliberated as she stared at the dark droplets, then she hobbled over to the window on her crutches with the blanket wrapped around her shoulders and stared out at the fresh snow.
The moonlight reflected off the white film covering the land, creating a brightness almost mimicking the daytime, though it was well into the night.
She squinted her eyes and saw footprints in the snow. There were a few sets spanning off on slightly different paths. She spotted two sets coming toward the hospital and one set leaving. It was far away, but in the footsteps leading away from the hospital were distinctly visible patches of blood. The trail led to the gap in the fence where the sets of footsteps converged, then it disappeared beyond her view. Sarah stared at the blood as the gears in her head turned. She felt like she was almost too weak to do anything, but she knew that he was vulnerable too. She could follow him and find out where he was hiding, and maybe she could finish him off once and for all.
Sarah stepped away from the window and the strength in her leg gave out. Her crutches slipped out from under her and she fell onto her knees.
It was a harsh reminder that she was in no shape to finish anyone off, let alone someone as hard to kill as her stalker. But she couldn't let him get away; there had to be some way she could pull it off.
She lifted her head and looked at the stairwell. With a sudden burst of resolve coming from some untapped well deep inside of her, she knew that she would do it.
The cold air outside was refreshing after the inferno that she'd been subjected to. Sarah trudged through the snow, carefully maneuvering her crutches so that she didn't slip. She followed the blood trail that sporadically rained down on the killer's footsteps, some parts in only tiny drips or dry as a bone, and other parts that looked like the killer had collapsed onto the ground or had taken a long moment to rest as his plasma oozed out of him onto the clean snow. His footsteps were uneven like he had been stumbling, and the line itself weaved with a slight back and forth, running across a road and into the woods.
It was dead quiet, and even with the dense trees surrounding her, the moonlight reached the snow by her feet and created enough brightness for her to see the path the killer traveled without any trouble. At times he had wandered from a straight path significantly, but it still appeared that he had been heading in a specific direction.
Hobbling through the terrain was tricky, as the snow covered tree roots and rocks that sinisterly stuck out of the ground. Sarah made her way slowly and carefully and rested when she needed to, but she was determined to follow the killer and see where he went. The thick blanket she wrapped herself in did its job fabulously, and despite the pain of her injuries, there was nothing that impeded her journey aside from general fatigue.
Eventually, she smelled the smoky, sweet scent of burning wood. Looking up at the sky, she saw a glint of orange somewhere far off in the distance. When she got closer, the unmistakable sound of a sizzling fire came, followed by voices. They were garbled at first until she got closer, and eventually she started to pick up bits of conversation and realized whom the voices belonged to.
Sarah neared the edge of the woods as the blood trail wound its way along the edge and continued deeper into the trees. There was a road out of the woods nearby and a group of bandits sat on half-broken patio chairs surrounded by a few burned-out cars. A campfire roared in the middle of them with what looked like a skinned dog spit roasted over it. The men huddled in coats and blankets, some of them obscured by a destroyed Chevy sitting in front of them, while they swore and argued.
The blood trail had been pretty steady leading through that stretch of the woods, but when it neared the bandits, there was a big splotch where it looked like the killer had stopped, then it led up near the edge of the trees in tiny droplets, ending in a rather large pool of blood behind an ash tree near to the road. A bloody handprint was planted on the back of the tree and Sarah inspected the clues like a detective. It looked like the killer had been watching the bandits for quite a while before his footsteps and blood turned and continued on his path through the woods.
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 front 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 w
ould 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.
Ashes in the Mouth (Zombie Apocalypse Series Book 3) Page 18