The Undead Chronicles | Vol. 3 | Dead of Winter, page 16
part #3 of The Undead Chronicles Series
“It’ll be okay,” he said. “And I’m sorry I was an ass earlier. Well, pretty much this entire time, I suppose.”
“You weren’t that bad,” Gracine said. “We didn’t exactly give you the warmest welcome.”
“Thanks.”
Driscoll prepared to leave when Sean clasped his arm.
“You should take Buster.”
“Your dad wouldn’t want that.”
“If something happened to Dad, Buster would never be the same. He’ll protect you.”
“I know he will.”
“One more thing,” Gracine said as Driscoll was about to summon Buster.
“What’s that?”
“Come back to us. Don’t get yourself killed out there.”
Driscoll gave a perplexed look, since he considered himself a dead man walking.
“There’s a chance we can take care of that bite for you.”
“Nothing can stop the spread.”
“No, but Isabella gave me something they were testing at the base. I’m just saying there’s a chance.”
Driscoll nodded.
“Forgive me if I don’t hold out much hope.”
He whistled to get Buster’s attention.
“Come on, boy,” he said, and Buster perked up at the opportunity to head out.
“Be careful,” Gracine said.
“Always.”
***
Sutton waited mere seconds after the murderous young man stepped outside before openly rolling his wrists to loosen the grip of the ropes.
Bound tightly, the ropes began cutting off the circulation to his hands, but he fought them, trying to get some play between them and his wrists. While the prospect of dumping the chair on its side and attempting to break it sounded more beneficial, Sutton suspected his captor hadn’t gone far, and he needed to save such a move as his last resort.
He began to regret coming alone, but he didn’t want anyone else, particularly the one son he’d found, and his dog, getting hurt. He knew their hearts, however, and when they didn’t hear from him, they’d come, and likely get hurt nonetheless. Vowing to improve upon his people skills if he survived the experience, Sutton managed to get a little wiggle room for his wrists, though a far cry from escaping the bindings.
Less than five minutes after stepping outside, the young man returned, immediately heading for a drawer in the kitchen where he produced a hammer and two long nails.
“Can’t have you trying anything while I’m away,” he said, carrying them over to the chair that held Sutton in check.
Sutton tensed, realizing the young man intended to hammer nails through the top of his hands, into the chair’s arm planks, making escape far more difficult.
And painful.
He reached Sutton, carefully placing a rusty nail between two of the middle bones on the backside of his hand, prepared to hammer the nail through flesh when something caught his attention. Sutton didn’t hear a thing, but he would be the first to admit his mind was preoccupied with the pain about to ravage his nerve endings. Walking to the window, the killer peered outside, acting paranoid that someone else was already tracking him to the cabin.
Putting the hammer and nails on a table, much to Sutton’s relief, the young man grabbed a rag covered in motor oil and what appeared to be animal hair, quickly tying the cloth around Sutton’s mouth, keeping him from uttering more than muffled cries.
“Can’t have you warning your friends, or screaming,” the man said as he cinched the gag. “And it sounds like they’re close. They’ll be joining you soon enough.”
Even before the young man made his way out the door, Sutton tested the filthy cloth wrapped around his head, finding his muffled voice incapable of making enough noise to leave the cabin. He tasted used motor oil as the pet hair irritated the inside of his mouth. Even breathing through his nose did little to better either predicament. He wasn’t sure what the killer heard, or thought he heard, but Sutton wasn’t about to dawdle. Fortunate that a second chance came to him without death or additional injury, he fought the chair by twisting his body several ways until it crashed hard on its right side.
Although it didn’t break apart, he heard something crack behind him, meaning the backing or one of the legs was compromised. Sutton attempted to back it into the wall behind him, but a lack of physical momentum kept the chair from further damage. He turned the entire chair so his back faced the ground, using his legs to hoist himself and the piece of furniture off the ground several inches before letting everything collapse against the hardwood floor. His first three attempts yielded no results, and he immediately felt winded because the gag kept him from breathing normally, or through his mouth.
Propping his head against the wall, Sutton managed to get more height by balancing the lower half of his body by putting strain on his neck and head. The maneuver hurt like hell, but he managed to get more than a foot off the ground before he slipped and sent all of his weight and momentum onto the chair as it hit the ground, fracturing along the molded, glued joints of the old chair. With the wind knocked from his lungs, he rolled to one side, able to spit out the gag as it somehow loosened from the fall. He found his arms and legs freed, but struggled to truly free himself as they remained tethered to the pieces of wood.
Sutton continued to spit out hair as he fought the ropes, managing to stand so he could look for a blade and his firearms. He looked like an odd, homemade Halloween costume with wooden planks and chair legs draped from his appendages. He trudged to the kitchen, opening a few of the drawers to find pot holders, silverware, and some paperwork before finding a medium, sharpened knife in the last one. He plucked it, able to cut the ropes from one arm, freeing each of his limbs in less than a minute without cutting himself.
Next, he set to finding his firearms, or anything useful in the cabin. If his friends had come for him, they placed themselves squarely in danger and he wasn’t about to let anything happen to them. He carried one of the chair arm planks with him, figuring it could be swung in self-defense, or held up to take a bullet, like a shield, in a pinch. Sutton searched a few random drawers, finding nothing of use, but he felt drawn to the drawer the man rummaged through before leaving the first time, wondering what interesting weapons or trinkets were hidden there.
He pulled on the handle, immediately finding an assortment of items like jewelry, driver’s licenses, and Polaroid photographs staring back at him. Some of the photos on the surface showed victims bound, likely in their final moments of life, and some of them depicted the bodies after being thoroughly burned. Feeling terrible that he hadn’t found this man sooner, and saved some lives, Sutton drew a heavy sigh. Though he wanted to leave and search for his weapons, Sutton couldn’t help but pick up a few of the items, immediately realizing the items belonged to people this man captured and tortured. Without doing an exact count, he estimated at least three dozen items occupied the drawer. He doubted any of the victims meant any harm, likely stopping for a rest and a place to sleep, only to have their lives stubbed out instead.
Feeling sickened and choked up at the same time, he discovered more photographs depicting victims either bound and looking helpless, or already burned by the killer. Sutton was about to close the drawer out of disgust when an item toward the bottom caught his eye.
“No,” he muttered, seeing the photo on a driver’s license partially obscured by the other items inside.
Hesitant, he started to reach for the object several times, balking from fear of the truth he already knew in his heart.
Finally, he plucked the license from the bottom of the pile, finding an image of his youngest son staring back at him.
“Jacob,” he said under his breath as tears welled in his eyes.
Sutton choked up immediately, feeling emotion overwhelm him as tears rolled down his cheeks without hesitation. Finding Sean was a blessing, but he held out hope of finding both of his sons alive and well. Knowing all too well he would have reunited with both of them if not for a murderous intervention, Sutton pocketed the license, knowing he needed to save the mourning process for later if he wanted to protect the people left in his life.
He choked back his sobs, wiped his eyes with his sleeves, and began searching the remainder of the cabin for his firearms and knives. It occurred to him the killer might be planning something heinous, because leaving Sutton bound to a chair all alone seemed foolhardy. Perhaps he wanted Sutton to step outside, even chase him through the woods, but Sutton had a better idea. He felt emotionally compromised, fighting to keep his wits about him as he entered the rear bedroom, finding a stack of items that included clothing, suitcases, some supplies, and a collection of firearms that included his own.
“Time to end this,” Sutton vowed, taking up his weapons, prepared to put his plan into action.
***
Driscoll stayed along the main road until he drew closer to the cabin in question. Buster remained with him, and Driscoll felt impressed by the canine’s intelligence, both in judging people accurately and doing what humans wanted from him without being told.
Feeling the sting of the bite along his side, he pressed onward, feeling certain he was about to carry out his last good deed on Earth. From what he gathered, the government tried creating a variety of vaccines or medication for whatever caused the dead to rise. He knew the sister-in-law of their friend grabbed a handful on her way out of the base and gave a few to Gracine. Without being tested in any kind of conditions, much less a variety, the medicine was a gamble that Driscoll didn’t expect to pay off on his behalf.
Concerned that he hadn’t seen the first sign of Sutton, and Buster hadn’t indicated locating any living person, Driscoll kept monitoring the area around him. Odors of recent burning reached his nostrils, and he couldn’t tell if the campfire Sutton started in the overnight blew from their camp, or something more sinister wafted his way.
Buster perked up, hearing or smelling something to his left, and dashed off without warning into the woods. Driscoll stood in place, stunned momentarily, to see if the canine returned to him, or found something nearby. As though tracking something hurriedly, the dog was swallowed by the fall foliage almost immediately. Driscoll heard the sound of the brush rustling until the dog vanished from sight, leaving him feeling very alone and vulnerable.
“He’ll protect you,” Driscoll repeated Sean’s words to him mockingly, under his breath, feeling very much the opposite of protected.
He momentarily considered returning to the main road, knowing the killer wouldn’t be as apt to hear him coming, but he’d easily be spotted without any cover. Being on the wrong end of a scoped rifle wasn’t how Driscoll planned on leaving the world.
Cautiously stepping through the woods, Driscoll kept shifting his eyes to the ground on the lookout for traps, and then upward, knowing he was drawing closer to the cabin. Wishing the group had the means to use and charge some kind of walkie talkies or higher-end radios, Driscoll envisioned them communicating better and knowing the status of everyone in the group with the push of a button.
Finally finding his place in the group, and coming up with ways to improve their lives made him regret keeping everyone at arm’s length for so long. His father set him on a path that brought him to such people after avoiding them for so many years. He wanted to start over with them and be a true member of their clan, and not just someone who toted a gun and occasionally pitched in.
Driscoll stopped to address the constant pain at his side, pulling up his shirt, which resisted him because blood and sweat caused it to adhere to his skin. He finally got a look at the bite mark, which appeared more inflamed than before with a darker shade of red circling the wound. Releasing the shirt, Driscoll looked to the side where Buster ran off, seeing no sign of the dog. He was about to continue the last leg of the walk to the cabin when the distinct sound of a branch breaking behind him alerted him to the presence of another person. Turning too late, Driscoll discovered the trigger was already being pulled on a weapon aimed at his chest.
Thirteen
Driscoll found himself on the wrong end of a taser, which rendered his muscles useless as they tensed from the electrical current paralyzing him and sending him into a heap to the ground. He felt his weapons quickly stripped from him as the man who assaulted him tied his hands behind his back with efficiency. To ensure success, the man zapped Driscoll a second time with the taser, providing him time enough to hogtie Driscoll’s feet, effectively neutralizing his prey in every way conceivable.
Feeling himself hoisted over the man’s shoulder, Driscoll knew he was being taken to his death, one way or another. He struggled against the man, able to shake his body and kick slightly with his legs.
“Quit, or I can skin you alive right here,” the man threatened in monotone.
Driscoll stopped fighting, taking a few deep breaths as the woods passed by from a strange vantage point. He noticed a bag being towed behind the man carrying him, and it looked as though the lengthy bag carried his firearms and blades, along with some other items.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’m dead already.”
“That makes sense on no level.”
“I was bitten.”
“Interesting.”
“Interesting?” Driscoll questioned, beginning to struggle once more against the callous, sociopathic young man who held human life in a completely different regard than the average person.
“Stop.”
Driscoll opted to quit squirming once again, trying to buy time for Buster or the others to find him, if they had even decided to search.
Halting where he stood, the man held many options over Driscoll, including dropping him on nearby rocks, slitting his throat, or using the taser again.
“I’m taking you to your friend.”
“Is he alive?” Driscoll questioned as the man began a steady walk through the woods once more.
“He is.”
“Keep me, and do whatever you want,” Driscoll volunteered. “Let the rest go.”
“They’ve seen me. That cannot happen.”
“They’re not going to come after you.”
“Two of you already have. This is what happens to people who trespass in my territory.”
Driscoll couldn’t imagine what shaped this killer to end up the way he had, though he felt surprised to hold any conversation whatsoever with him.
“I may keep you as a pet,” the man said out of nowhere, and Driscoll felt certain they were drawing closer to the cabin. “I may even let you change and bite your friend so I can keep you both.”
Trying to wrap his mind around such a bizarre concept, Driscoll couldn’t imagine what motivated him to murder people, experiment on them, or keep the undead like pets. He seemed almost detached, in some ways like a scientific mind, but in others, a troubled person with some hang-ups that weren’t addressed before the apocalypse.
Perhaps the solutions simply didn’t take.
“You can’t keep doing this,” Driscoll said.
“Doing what?”
“Killing people for no reason,” Driscoll replied, struggling to get his words out as he bobbed up and down slightly on the man’s shoulder.
“I have my reasons.”
Driscoll felt his mind wander a bit, knowing his life measured in hours regardless of what this man did to him. He hoped being reunited with Sutton might provide them with a way to team up and escape the madman’s ploy. Allowing this individual to hunt down the remainder of the group simply wasn’t an option in Driscoll’s mind.
When his captor came to a stop, Driscoll sensed they had reached the cabin. He wondered if the man sensed danger, or perhaps savored the moment before enjoying the torture and dismemberment of his two prisoners. He saw the thin rope used to tote the bag of weapons drop to the ground, meaning the guns and knives were there for the taking. Driscoll wished he could hold a firearm for two seconds and bring the cat and mouse game to an end.
Feeling the man struggle to ascend the stairs while carrying him, Driscoll heard a few grunts before they reached the small porch. He figured the man might set him down before opening the door, but the man turned awkwardly with Driscoll still perched atop his right shoulder, turning the doorknob before lugging him inside.
Less than two seconds passed before Driscoll heard some words being spoken by someone other than his captor, a gunshot ringing out, and him being dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes. Still trying to gather his wits, Driscoll saw two feet from ground level leaving the cabin, darting for the woods. He wasn’t sure if he was about to be finished off, rescued, or left for dead, because everything happened in a blur.
***
Sutton decided after viewing the photos that he didn’t want to trudge through the woods looking for the killer, because the man wasn’t going to attack his entire group at once. Most likely, he wanted to scout the area and make certain no one set out to search for Sutton. Temporarily hardening his heart, Sutton put aside tears and mourning after deciding exactly how he wanted to deal with the deranged young man.
He spied the man carrying what appeared to be Driscoll over his shoulder almost a hundred yards away, through the front window. Him not being alone didn’t alter Sutton’s plan very much, but he knew his aim needed to be a bit more accurate.
During the half hour the man left the cabin, Sutton formulated his plan after several attempts that didn’t feel vengeful enough. Simply shooting the man when he walked inside didn’t feel right, because he wanted the killer to feel some form of fear first. Sutton wanted the man to know he was bested before a bullet penetrated his skin. The fate of some three dozen victims, including his youngest son, demanded that the man suffer, feeling tortured in one way or another, before being put down like a rabid dog.
