The Undead Chronicles | Vol. 3 | Dead of Winter, page 14
part #3 of The Undead Chronicles Series
“My loyalty is to you,” Timmons said with a serious expression, pointing directly at Metzger. “I’m not following leadership that hides in some bunker, or admirals and generals who haven’t even been face-to-face with the infected. I know that me asking to stay by your side means I have to protect your family as well, but you’re the one who’s going to lead people out of this, whether you know it or not.”
Metzger grew concerned that Timmons regarded him as some kind of messiah.
“Why? Because I’m immune to the disease?”
“No, because you’ve confronted it head-on, and you have the best intentions of all of us,” Timmons replied. “I’m willing to follow you to the ends of the Earth because I’ve been around you long enough to believe in what you’re doing.”
“I’m going to find my brother, Scott.”
“I believe you.” Timmons’ face etched a bit of his concern before he added another comment. “I also believe the right thing for you and Bryce to do is return to the base when you’re ready, but I’m in no position to make that happen. If that was my intention, I would’ve made a move before we came to maple syrup country.”
“Why would I return to the base?”
“If they didn’t develop a cure or vaccine from what samples they took from you, thousands of people will remain at risk. What you do is your choice, because the only thing I’m asking for is forgiveness for my secrecy, and the chance to stick around.”
Metzger thought about his position a moment, knowing he wasn’t going to kick the pilot out of a safe haven for keeping a mostly harmless secret.
“If you haven’t experienced a winter up here, you’re about to get a number of chances to prove yourself,” he finally said.
“That’s all I’m asking.”
“You taught me a little about piloting, and you’re about to get some lessons in return. New York is in winter ninety percent of the time compared to normal states.”
Timmons gave an uncertain grin, and the two men shook hands, prepared to confront several different hardships in the apocalypse.
Eleven
“You can’t go after this guy by yourself,” Gracine told Sutton when they returned to the central cabin where they’d stayed the night.
Both bodies remained in the yard as a stark reminder of the adversary they faced. Luke had taken Samantha inside, but everyone else stood on the front landing, near the creepy jack-o-lantern with the candle that finally burned to the bottom.
“He’s one person,” Sutton said. “He can only lay so many traps, and he probably destroyed his one stockpile of resources by torching that cabin.”
“Then why wouldn’t he run?” Driscoll asked. “We should be hitting the road ourselves right now.”
“There are three cabins left to check,” Sutton reasoned aloud. “I want answers, and while I’m at it, I can disarm any traps he left for people who don’t know any better.”
“Dad, you’re fully capable,” Sean stated, “but you’re no trap expert. You could still fall into something.”
“I’m not going to spend another night looking over my shoulder,” Sutton insisted. “One way or another, this ends today.”
“You’re not going alone,” Sean insisted.
“I work better alone.”
Driscoll cleared his throat.
“Whatever you two decide, I’m leaving. Now.”
“That seems like the opposite of safe,” Gracine said with a raised eyebrow.
“And all of you splitting up, either chasing this guy, or waiting for him to come burn you alive, sounds better?”
Gracine looked at him, placing her right hand on her hip.
“You sound scared.”
“It’s hard enough to survive with things the way they are, and you throw a serial killer in the mix? This sounds like as good a time as any to move along.”
Sutton had heard enough.
“If you’re going to go, go already. We can’t afford to have you take either of the vehicles.”
“I’ll be fine,” Driscoll said. “There were cars between here and the other campsite. I can walk that far.”
While Driscoll gathered up what few belongings he could take with him, Sutton turned his attention to his son.
“I don’t want you going with me.”
“You can’t do this alone. We take Buster, and we stick to the main roads.”
“And we’re just supposed to sit here like targets?” Luke questioned.
“You have guns,” Sutton stated, giving him a sour look. “The guy isn’t brazen enough to come after a group.”
“He just tried to set three of you on fire,” Gracine noted.
“I was there!” Driscoll called from the other room where he continued to gather items.
“You were unconscious,” Sutton rebutted. “And you’re about to be this guy’s target again.”
“I’m pulling my ass out of the fire,” Driscoll said, returning to the group, holding a pack that contained a few firearms and some supplies. “Pun intended.”
“This isn’t the time to leave,” Gracine said directly to Driscoll. “You’re panicking.”
“Sister, I was ready to go before we encountered this psycho,” he replied, wincing as he put a hand up to his head as though he felt pain.
“I’m not your sister,” Gracine said, “and you might as well paint a target on your back if you leave now.”
“You all said it earlier. He’s one person. He can’t track all of us at once.”
“Don’t do this,” Sutton said, his tone just short of uttering a plea. “You can’t make it on your own.”
“I have before,” Driscoll said, slinging the pack over his shoulder. “I’ll find others.”
Gracine shook her head.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she asked. “We aren’t your ideal companions because I’m not the right color, and he’s gay?”
She nodded in the direction of Luke, who said nothing, but didn’t look appreciative of Driscoll’s actions if he was guided by prejudices. Driscoll started to say something, but turned away, exiting through the door with a dismissive wave without looking back.
“That went well,” Luke said sarcastically.
Sutton knew he needed to deal with the main project at hand to keep everyone safe.
“You’re staying,” he said to Sean. “We’ll talk when I get back.”
“Where are you going?” Sean questioned.
“I’m going to keep us all alive,” Sutton replied. “Keep Buster safe while I’m gone.”
Sean started to step forward, but Sutton placed his palm against his son’s chest.
“Stay.”
“I don’t know these people,” Sean said so only his father could hear his words.
“They’re friends,” Sutton assured him. “Better friends than I’ve deserved these past few weeks. So keep them safe for me.”
Sutton made certain he possessed the weapons and tools necessary to track the murderous stranger before exiting the door, seeing no sign of Driscoll when he stepped outside. Just once, he wanted to make a stop with the group that didn’t include them running into dangerous or deranged individuals.
***
“We can’t let him go off alone,” Sean said less than a minute after his father’s departure.
“Have you met your father?” Gracine asked, knowing better than to talk sense into the man hellbent on locating their latest nemesis. “Has he always been this stubborn?”
“Yes.”
As concerned as she was for Sutton, Gracine also worried about Driscoll. He didn’t appear entirely in control of his faculties when he left.
“What happened to Steve?” she asked of Sean, who returned a quizzical stare. “How did he end up in that pit with you?”
“It was a basement. And I think he was conked over the head before he was thrown down there.”
“He wanted to leave before all of this happened,” Luke said. “I say we let him go.”
“He wasn’t in his right mind,” Gracine said. “Head trauma is making him loopy, and Colby is on a mission, so he just let him go.”
Buster whimpered at the front door, hating being left behind. He went to the windows he could reach, either by standing on the floor, or on furniture, to look for his owner.
“He tried to help me,” Sean said. “The least I could do is make sure he’s okay.”
“We can’t take Buster,” Gracine thought aloud. “He’d try and track your dad.”
“He can stay with me and Samantha,” Luke said. “I’m not taking her out there while that maniac is on the loose.”
Gracine gathered a few firearms, handing a semi-automatic pistol to Sean.
“I take it you’re well-versed?”
“My father would disown me if I wasn’t.”
“I suspected as much. Let’s track down Steve and make sure he’s of sound mind before he gets too far.”
“Beats going stir crazy around here and worrying about my dad.”
***
Driscoll started off by following the road out of the campground, not wanting anything to impede his progress. The farther he walked, however, the more he worried about someone tracking his movements. He’d wanted to leave the group, because he felt conflicted being around a person of color, and a homosexual, which went against everything his upbringing taught him.
His father, a fire and brimstone preacher, presided over several congregations during his three decades of preaching. In his early days, he preached his true thoughts, about how homosexuality sent people directly to hell. He also put out vibes that people who weren’t Caucasian were inferior people in every sense of the word. For years, Driscoll knew nothing different, and he tended to associate with like-minded individuals throughout his school years, ensuring his father liked the friends he brought home.
Before he knew it, Driscoll found himself in the middle of the woods, not certain where he was because he lost track of time.
Or rather lost time altogether.
He didn’t recall why he chose this particular direction, and possessed no clue about which direction he currently faced.
His skull felt as though it was on fire, a condition that came and went ever since he fell victim to the lunatic rendering him unconscious.
Finding a tree with cleared ground surrounding it, Driscoll slumped against the thick stump and sat on the dirt with his back against the tree. He remembered the times his father jokingly talked about how nice it would be to own slaves, and how wrong the country became after the Civil War and the civil rights movement.
Even in the apocalypse, Driscoll traveled with people who shared the same thoughts as his father. Not until he met Sutton, and the rest of the group shortly after that, did he begin to get to know people who weren’t just like him. He couldn’t say he knew them much beyond their names and their recent actions, but they took care of one another. They acted like family in every sense of the word, even though they didn’t share a bloodline.
If not for Sutton, Driscoll would have died in the shootout in South Hill when his group acted irresponsibly and tried to bully survivors for no good reason.
He knew they were bad seeds, but back then Driscoll knew no other way to survive. Losing his friends and family early on when the world ended, he made a stand at the house where his folks lived, even with their bodies buried in the back yard. Eventually, the stored and gathered food and supplies ran low, forcing him to leave the area. He dealt with the undead when they staggered onto the property, but the survivors became a larger issue. Driscoll began to realize he couldn’t fend them off alone, and wherever he chose to travel, he needed people with him, or he’d perish.
Continuing to sit against the tree, Driscoll took in the sounds of nature with squirrels chattering, birds chirping, and an unusual sound he couldn’t quite distinguish. He closed his eyes for a moment, then when he opened them again, the lighting had somehow changed, as though time had passed. He spotted someone walking directly towards him, but his mind didn’t instinctively make him reach for his firearm, or stand in preparation of defending himself. He felt oddly at peace, as though he was exactly where he needed to be.
“Son, what are you doing sleeping on the job?” a slender man with a strong build asked him once he drew closer.
“Dad?” Driscoll questioned almost sleepily. “Aren’t you-”
“Don’t sass me, son,” his father said with his drawl that originated in Georgia. “I asked you a question.”
“But, Dad, I didn’t mean to-”
“Staying with niggers and faggots has made you weak,” his father said as Driscoll clamored to his feet, only to receive a poking finger in his chest. “I told you to stick with your own kind.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“I don’t want excuses, Steven. You need to get your ass to steppin’ before I tan it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Driscoll’s mind still felt hazy, and he couldn’t explain how the father, whose death he personally witnessed was speaking to him, but Driscoll felt obligated to comply. He found little time to dwell on his situation, because his father walked by his side, constantly monitoring his every move, much like his teenage days.
His father always wore his hair short, almost military by nature, and in this instance, his temples appeared gray, mixed in with otherwise black hair. A thick vein always protruded from his neck, as though he perpetually remained angry at something. His voice carried, like a drill sergeant, or an auctioneer perhaps, and Driscoll remembered jumping to attention whenever Alvin Driscoll raised his voice around his children.
“Did you sleep with her, Steven?” his father asked with fire in his eyes.
“Who?”
“The nigger lady. Did you have sexual relations with her?”
“No,” Driscoll answered defiantly. “I would never.”
“Because she isn’t your wife, or because she’s colored?”
“Well, both,” Driscoll answered.
Driscoll continued walking, feeling a bit more certain of his course now, though his father remained at his side, except when he needed to step around a tree. From the corner of one eye, Driscoll thought he saw his father move through a tree, like a ghost phasing through a solid object, or a wall. He said nothing, however, because there wasn’t much he could say to the man who shaped him during his formative years.
“I raised you better than this,” his father said, shaking his head. “I would rather see you strike out on your own and get bit than stay with these people.”
This isn’t real, Driscoll began to think, recalling how overbearing his father could be with his mannerisms, voice, and that hard strut he did when something lit a fire under him. Despite all of that, his father never ranted, even during sermons, and this entire conversation felt false to him. He stopped suddenly, still surrounded by trees, feeling as though he wasn’t making any headway to the destination he thought he knew. Suddenly, he couldn’t remember where he was heading.
“Steven, you need to snap out of this funk you’re in,” his father said. “Wake up.”
Driscoll continued to stand, uncertain of where to go next. His father grabbed him by the shirt collar with both hands, drawing his face within inches of his son before yelling at him.
“Wake up!”
Driscoll felt his body jolt awake as he found himself still seated at the base of the same tree. He somehow dozed off, or lost consciousness, and his head still ached. He saw a figure walking directly at him, and he wondered if he was experiencing an unrelenting wave of déjà vu. When this figure drew close, however, it hissed and growled, revealing itself as a member of the undead before dropping down with its jaws aimed at his neck.
***
Sutton chose the path of least resistance when it came to tracking down the mysterious murderer. He followed the road to the cabin where the man was heading when the group last spotted him, believing he might have set up shop in the building farthest from the campsite’s entrance.
When he drew closer, he stepped off the dirt road, trudging through the shrubs and overgrown grass instead. He monitored a few steps ahead of him the entire way, searching for traps that might alert the predatory man, or ensnare Sutton, leaving him defenseless. Despite being motivated by revenge of his son, and wanting to prevent others from falling victim to the man, Sutton maintained incredibly calm, not rushing into action.
He didn’t like that Driscoll felt so determined to leave, because the man, in turn, placed the others in danger. Banding together always kept them safer, and Driscoll could become a victim, or he might get captured and used as bait. For all Sutton knew, the man who burned others after torturing them might be tracking him at the moment, but he kept his firearms handy. Occasionally, he turned to scour his surroundings through the thermal scope of his sniper rifle. He spotted a deer one time, and a few birds perched in trees, but no shapes that resembled a human being.
Sutton wanted to catch up with his son, and keep him safe, but he knew this particular action kept far more people alive if he succeeded. Buster’s assistance would have been a benefit as always, but he didn’t want his canine falling into a trap, or giving away their position. Leaving him with Sean also kept his son safer from harm, because Buster protected anyone he considered an ally.
When the cabin finally came into view, Sutton pulled the sniper rifle around his shoulder where it was strapped and had a look directly at the cabin. Thermal imaging couldn’t penetrate solid surfaces, but he hoped to find a trace of warmth from where the killer had placed a hand against the wood, or a door, as he entered. Seeing no signs of the man recently stepping outside, he slowly moved forward, listening for any distinctive noises. He felt a bit disturbed by the fact that the animals around him suddenly had little to say, possibly meaning they sensed danger.
He began to doubt his adversary’s ability to create traps. The wire he encountered earlier was simply an early warning device. Also, the man didn’t elaborately ensnare the people he captured for his sick games, instead knocking them cold with tools or blunt objects. Sutton’s only sighting of the man looked more like a blur than anything, and he mainly focused on the fiery bottle about to be thrown his way in the cabin cellar.
Metzger grew concerned that Timmons regarded him as some kind of messiah.
“Why? Because I’m immune to the disease?”
“No, because you’ve confronted it head-on, and you have the best intentions of all of us,” Timmons replied. “I’m willing to follow you to the ends of the Earth because I’ve been around you long enough to believe in what you’re doing.”
“I’m going to find my brother, Scott.”
“I believe you.” Timmons’ face etched a bit of his concern before he added another comment. “I also believe the right thing for you and Bryce to do is return to the base when you’re ready, but I’m in no position to make that happen. If that was my intention, I would’ve made a move before we came to maple syrup country.”
“Why would I return to the base?”
“If they didn’t develop a cure or vaccine from what samples they took from you, thousands of people will remain at risk. What you do is your choice, because the only thing I’m asking for is forgiveness for my secrecy, and the chance to stick around.”
Metzger thought about his position a moment, knowing he wasn’t going to kick the pilot out of a safe haven for keeping a mostly harmless secret.
“If you haven’t experienced a winter up here, you’re about to get a number of chances to prove yourself,” he finally said.
“That’s all I’m asking.”
“You taught me a little about piloting, and you’re about to get some lessons in return. New York is in winter ninety percent of the time compared to normal states.”
Timmons gave an uncertain grin, and the two men shook hands, prepared to confront several different hardships in the apocalypse.
Eleven
“You can’t go after this guy by yourself,” Gracine told Sutton when they returned to the central cabin where they’d stayed the night.
Both bodies remained in the yard as a stark reminder of the adversary they faced. Luke had taken Samantha inside, but everyone else stood on the front landing, near the creepy jack-o-lantern with the candle that finally burned to the bottom.
“He’s one person,” Sutton said. “He can only lay so many traps, and he probably destroyed his one stockpile of resources by torching that cabin.”
“Then why wouldn’t he run?” Driscoll asked. “We should be hitting the road ourselves right now.”
“There are three cabins left to check,” Sutton reasoned aloud. “I want answers, and while I’m at it, I can disarm any traps he left for people who don’t know any better.”
“Dad, you’re fully capable,” Sean stated, “but you’re no trap expert. You could still fall into something.”
“I’m not going to spend another night looking over my shoulder,” Sutton insisted. “One way or another, this ends today.”
“You’re not going alone,” Sean insisted.
“I work better alone.”
Driscoll cleared his throat.
“Whatever you two decide, I’m leaving. Now.”
“That seems like the opposite of safe,” Gracine said with a raised eyebrow.
“And all of you splitting up, either chasing this guy, or waiting for him to come burn you alive, sounds better?”
Gracine looked at him, placing her right hand on her hip.
“You sound scared.”
“It’s hard enough to survive with things the way they are, and you throw a serial killer in the mix? This sounds like as good a time as any to move along.”
Sutton had heard enough.
“If you’re going to go, go already. We can’t afford to have you take either of the vehicles.”
“I’ll be fine,” Driscoll said. “There were cars between here and the other campsite. I can walk that far.”
While Driscoll gathered up what few belongings he could take with him, Sutton turned his attention to his son.
“I don’t want you going with me.”
“You can’t do this alone. We take Buster, and we stick to the main roads.”
“And we’re just supposed to sit here like targets?” Luke questioned.
“You have guns,” Sutton stated, giving him a sour look. “The guy isn’t brazen enough to come after a group.”
“He just tried to set three of you on fire,” Gracine noted.
“I was there!” Driscoll called from the other room where he continued to gather items.
“You were unconscious,” Sutton rebutted. “And you’re about to be this guy’s target again.”
“I’m pulling my ass out of the fire,” Driscoll said, returning to the group, holding a pack that contained a few firearms and some supplies. “Pun intended.”
“This isn’t the time to leave,” Gracine said directly to Driscoll. “You’re panicking.”
“Sister, I was ready to go before we encountered this psycho,” he replied, wincing as he put a hand up to his head as though he felt pain.
“I’m not your sister,” Gracine said, “and you might as well paint a target on your back if you leave now.”
“You all said it earlier. He’s one person. He can’t track all of us at once.”
“Don’t do this,” Sutton said, his tone just short of uttering a plea. “You can’t make it on your own.”
“I have before,” Driscoll said, slinging the pack over his shoulder. “I’ll find others.”
Gracine shook her head.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she asked. “We aren’t your ideal companions because I’m not the right color, and he’s gay?”
She nodded in the direction of Luke, who said nothing, but didn’t look appreciative of Driscoll’s actions if he was guided by prejudices. Driscoll started to say something, but turned away, exiting through the door with a dismissive wave without looking back.
“That went well,” Luke said sarcastically.
Sutton knew he needed to deal with the main project at hand to keep everyone safe.
“You’re staying,” he said to Sean. “We’ll talk when I get back.”
“Where are you going?” Sean questioned.
“I’m going to keep us all alive,” Sutton replied. “Keep Buster safe while I’m gone.”
Sean started to step forward, but Sutton placed his palm against his son’s chest.
“Stay.”
“I don’t know these people,” Sean said so only his father could hear his words.
“They’re friends,” Sutton assured him. “Better friends than I’ve deserved these past few weeks. So keep them safe for me.”
Sutton made certain he possessed the weapons and tools necessary to track the murderous stranger before exiting the door, seeing no sign of Driscoll when he stepped outside. Just once, he wanted to make a stop with the group that didn’t include them running into dangerous or deranged individuals.
***
“We can’t let him go off alone,” Sean said less than a minute after his father’s departure.
“Have you met your father?” Gracine asked, knowing better than to talk sense into the man hellbent on locating their latest nemesis. “Has he always been this stubborn?”
“Yes.”
As concerned as she was for Sutton, Gracine also worried about Driscoll. He didn’t appear entirely in control of his faculties when he left.
“What happened to Steve?” she asked of Sean, who returned a quizzical stare. “How did he end up in that pit with you?”
“It was a basement. And I think he was conked over the head before he was thrown down there.”
“He wanted to leave before all of this happened,” Luke said. “I say we let him go.”
“He wasn’t in his right mind,” Gracine said. “Head trauma is making him loopy, and Colby is on a mission, so he just let him go.”
Buster whimpered at the front door, hating being left behind. He went to the windows he could reach, either by standing on the floor, or on furniture, to look for his owner.
“He tried to help me,” Sean said. “The least I could do is make sure he’s okay.”
“We can’t take Buster,” Gracine thought aloud. “He’d try and track your dad.”
“He can stay with me and Samantha,” Luke said. “I’m not taking her out there while that maniac is on the loose.”
Gracine gathered a few firearms, handing a semi-automatic pistol to Sean.
“I take it you’re well-versed?”
“My father would disown me if I wasn’t.”
“I suspected as much. Let’s track down Steve and make sure he’s of sound mind before he gets too far.”
“Beats going stir crazy around here and worrying about my dad.”
***
Driscoll started off by following the road out of the campground, not wanting anything to impede his progress. The farther he walked, however, the more he worried about someone tracking his movements. He’d wanted to leave the group, because he felt conflicted being around a person of color, and a homosexual, which went against everything his upbringing taught him.
His father, a fire and brimstone preacher, presided over several congregations during his three decades of preaching. In his early days, he preached his true thoughts, about how homosexuality sent people directly to hell. He also put out vibes that people who weren’t Caucasian were inferior people in every sense of the word. For years, Driscoll knew nothing different, and he tended to associate with like-minded individuals throughout his school years, ensuring his father liked the friends he brought home.
Before he knew it, Driscoll found himself in the middle of the woods, not certain where he was because he lost track of time.
Or rather lost time altogether.
He didn’t recall why he chose this particular direction, and possessed no clue about which direction he currently faced.
His skull felt as though it was on fire, a condition that came and went ever since he fell victim to the lunatic rendering him unconscious.
Finding a tree with cleared ground surrounding it, Driscoll slumped against the thick stump and sat on the dirt with his back against the tree. He remembered the times his father jokingly talked about how nice it would be to own slaves, and how wrong the country became after the Civil War and the civil rights movement.
Even in the apocalypse, Driscoll traveled with people who shared the same thoughts as his father. Not until he met Sutton, and the rest of the group shortly after that, did he begin to get to know people who weren’t just like him. He couldn’t say he knew them much beyond their names and their recent actions, but they took care of one another. They acted like family in every sense of the word, even though they didn’t share a bloodline.
If not for Sutton, Driscoll would have died in the shootout in South Hill when his group acted irresponsibly and tried to bully survivors for no good reason.
He knew they were bad seeds, but back then Driscoll knew no other way to survive. Losing his friends and family early on when the world ended, he made a stand at the house where his folks lived, even with their bodies buried in the back yard. Eventually, the stored and gathered food and supplies ran low, forcing him to leave the area. He dealt with the undead when they staggered onto the property, but the survivors became a larger issue. Driscoll began to realize he couldn’t fend them off alone, and wherever he chose to travel, he needed people with him, or he’d perish.
Continuing to sit against the tree, Driscoll took in the sounds of nature with squirrels chattering, birds chirping, and an unusual sound he couldn’t quite distinguish. He closed his eyes for a moment, then when he opened them again, the lighting had somehow changed, as though time had passed. He spotted someone walking directly towards him, but his mind didn’t instinctively make him reach for his firearm, or stand in preparation of defending himself. He felt oddly at peace, as though he was exactly where he needed to be.
“Son, what are you doing sleeping on the job?” a slender man with a strong build asked him once he drew closer.
“Dad?” Driscoll questioned almost sleepily. “Aren’t you-”
“Don’t sass me, son,” his father said with his drawl that originated in Georgia. “I asked you a question.”
“But, Dad, I didn’t mean to-”
“Staying with niggers and faggots has made you weak,” his father said as Driscoll clamored to his feet, only to receive a poking finger in his chest. “I told you to stick with your own kind.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“I don’t want excuses, Steven. You need to get your ass to steppin’ before I tan it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Driscoll’s mind still felt hazy, and he couldn’t explain how the father, whose death he personally witnessed was speaking to him, but Driscoll felt obligated to comply. He found little time to dwell on his situation, because his father walked by his side, constantly monitoring his every move, much like his teenage days.
His father always wore his hair short, almost military by nature, and in this instance, his temples appeared gray, mixed in with otherwise black hair. A thick vein always protruded from his neck, as though he perpetually remained angry at something. His voice carried, like a drill sergeant, or an auctioneer perhaps, and Driscoll remembered jumping to attention whenever Alvin Driscoll raised his voice around his children.
“Did you sleep with her, Steven?” his father asked with fire in his eyes.
“Who?”
“The nigger lady. Did you have sexual relations with her?”
“No,” Driscoll answered defiantly. “I would never.”
“Because she isn’t your wife, or because she’s colored?”
“Well, both,” Driscoll answered.
Driscoll continued walking, feeling a bit more certain of his course now, though his father remained at his side, except when he needed to step around a tree. From the corner of one eye, Driscoll thought he saw his father move through a tree, like a ghost phasing through a solid object, or a wall. He said nothing, however, because there wasn’t much he could say to the man who shaped him during his formative years.
“I raised you better than this,” his father said, shaking his head. “I would rather see you strike out on your own and get bit than stay with these people.”
This isn’t real, Driscoll began to think, recalling how overbearing his father could be with his mannerisms, voice, and that hard strut he did when something lit a fire under him. Despite all of that, his father never ranted, even during sermons, and this entire conversation felt false to him. He stopped suddenly, still surrounded by trees, feeling as though he wasn’t making any headway to the destination he thought he knew. Suddenly, he couldn’t remember where he was heading.
“Steven, you need to snap out of this funk you’re in,” his father said. “Wake up.”
Driscoll continued to stand, uncertain of where to go next. His father grabbed him by the shirt collar with both hands, drawing his face within inches of his son before yelling at him.
“Wake up!”
Driscoll felt his body jolt awake as he found himself still seated at the base of the same tree. He somehow dozed off, or lost consciousness, and his head still ached. He saw a figure walking directly at him, and he wondered if he was experiencing an unrelenting wave of déjà vu. When this figure drew close, however, it hissed and growled, revealing itself as a member of the undead before dropping down with its jaws aimed at his neck.
***
Sutton chose the path of least resistance when it came to tracking down the mysterious murderer. He followed the road to the cabin where the man was heading when the group last spotted him, believing he might have set up shop in the building farthest from the campsite’s entrance.
When he drew closer, he stepped off the dirt road, trudging through the shrubs and overgrown grass instead. He monitored a few steps ahead of him the entire way, searching for traps that might alert the predatory man, or ensnare Sutton, leaving him defenseless. Despite being motivated by revenge of his son, and wanting to prevent others from falling victim to the man, Sutton maintained incredibly calm, not rushing into action.
He didn’t like that Driscoll felt so determined to leave, because the man, in turn, placed the others in danger. Banding together always kept them safer, and Driscoll could become a victim, or he might get captured and used as bait. For all Sutton knew, the man who burned others after torturing them might be tracking him at the moment, but he kept his firearms handy. Occasionally, he turned to scour his surroundings through the thermal scope of his sniper rifle. He spotted a deer one time, and a few birds perched in trees, but no shapes that resembled a human being.
Sutton wanted to catch up with his son, and keep him safe, but he knew this particular action kept far more people alive if he succeeded. Buster’s assistance would have been a benefit as always, but he didn’t want his canine falling into a trap, or giving away their position. Leaving him with Sean also kept his son safer from harm, because Buster protected anyone he considered an ally.
When the cabin finally came into view, Sutton pulled the sniper rifle around his shoulder where it was strapped and had a look directly at the cabin. Thermal imaging couldn’t penetrate solid surfaces, but he hoped to find a trace of warmth from where the killer had placed a hand against the wood, or a door, as he entered. Seeing no signs of the man recently stepping outside, he slowly moved forward, listening for any distinctive noises. He felt a bit disturbed by the fact that the animals around him suddenly had little to say, possibly meaning they sensed danger.
He began to doubt his adversary’s ability to create traps. The wire he encountered earlier was simply an early warning device. Also, the man didn’t elaborately ensnare the people he captured for his sick games, instead knocking them cold with tools or blunt objects. Sutton’s only sighting of the man looked more like a blur than anything, and he mainly focused on the fiery bottle about to be thrown his way in the cabin cellar.
