The Undead Chronicles | Vol. 3 | Dead of Winter, page 17
part #3 of The Undead Chronicles Series
When he stepped outside to clear his head and listen for the man’s return, Sutton found inspiration when he noticed the pumpkins for a second time.
He spent the next five minutes gutting a pumpkin and carving a face into it, all the while monitoring the outdoors through the window facing the same direction as the door. Not particularly concerned with the quality of his work, Sutton carved a face in the vegetable after scraping the bottom just smooth enough to steady a candle. He’d located candles and a lighter in his earlier searches, so he set the jack-o-lantern on the table, facing the door, and placed a lit candle inside. Part of him wanted to be seated, facing the door when the killer arrived back at the cabin, but he needed to keep watch and anticipate any issues before the man stepped inside.
Not usually one for theatrics, Sutton felt surprisingly spirited about enacting precise revenge against the man. Basing his murders on intimidation and a sense of foreboding, the man needed to experience a few of his own tactics before meeting his end.
Reunited with his firearms, Sutton waited behind the kitchen table he’d placed about five feet in front of the main entrance. He waited patiently, holding the gun, simply waiting for the events to unfold as they may. Because the man carried Driscoll on one shoulder, he wasn’t going to be able to quickly go for a weapon. Standing back from the window so he couldn’t be seen, Sutton observed Driscoll struggling a few different times against the young man. Each time, the killer spoke, and Driscoll stopped wriggling, allowing the man to carry him to an undetermined fate.
Humming the tune of Neil Diamond’s “Solitary Man” while waiting, to keep his nerves steady and his mind occupied, Sutton found his idea of solitude different than those in the lyrics. He kept pushing people away from him during the outbreak of the infection, but over the past few weeks he realized he needed trustworthy people by his side. Sharing his supplies wasn’t an issue, because Sutton now felt confident that he would find more supplies or settle somewhere and begin anew with his current group. He wasn’t foolhardy enough to believe survival was easy in any future scenario, but they could find somewhere safe, with land and water, and make a go of it.
But first, he needed to deal with the situation at hand.
When the killer reached the front door, he turned his body somewhat sideways to reach for the doorknob, carrying Driscoll inside without much effort. It wasn’t until he’d fully stepped inside that he noticed the carved jack-o-lantern staring back at him, displayed atop the dining table. Sutton stepped into view, pointed the gun at the young man, and waited for a clear view.
“Trick-or-treat, motherfucker!” Sutton uttered angrily, squeezing the trigger and clipping the man in the shoulder because the killer turned to put Driscoll in harm’s way.
Without hesitation the killer ran out the door, and into the woods, but Sutton stepped forward, anger from within fueling his steady hand as he took aim at the back of the man’s knee. At nearly forty feet from the cabin, the young man likely believed his escape inevitable, so he could return to haunt the group, or others, at a time of his choosing. Assuming his shooting stance from the porch, his breathing calm and collected despite his expression showing his anger outwardly, Sutton required only a few seconds to line up the shot before firing.
Blood spurted from the side of the man’s right knee as he fell forward, hitting the ground without the benefit of breaking his fall. Sutton calmly walked down the porch’s front stairs, hearing Driscoll get to his feet behind him, despite the ringing in his ears from firing a gun without hearing protection. Without looking back, the young man struggled to his feet, like a wounded deer, before continuing to run forward. Although the younger man couldn’t run very fast with a significant limp, Sutton didn’t feel like tracking him through the woods. Some dark thoughts ran through his mind as he raised the pistol and shot the man in the back of his upper left leg.
Crying out in pain, the man dropped to the ground once again, but Sutton didn’t feel an ounce of remorse. He continued marching forward, stalking his prey, his eyes unblinking as he stared holes in the man who murdered his youngest son. No form of punishment felt severe enough for the man, regardless of whether he experienced a troubled childhood, couldn’t take medications in the apocalypse, or he was simply born a psychopath.
By the time Sutton reached him, the man was crawling, using only his arms, because both of his legs were deemed practically useless by Sutton’s precision aim.
Stealing a glance behind him, he found Driscoll waiting on the porch, leaning against a railing for support due to some kind of injuries, patiently waiting for events to unfold. Returning his attention to the injured killer, Sutton looked skyward, finding the gray sky getting darker. A few drops of rain struck his face, and thunder rolled in the distance.
“You should’ve killed me when you had the chance,” Sutton said with a growl.
“Kill me and be done with it,” the man replied, his left hand grasping at a nearby shrub to pull himself forward.
“That would be more than you deserve,” Sutton retorted. “After all, you killed someone I loved very much.”
All of the sudden both of them were motionless, and the man acted as though he wanted to hear the story, even if to relive the crime in his mind.
“Who?” he asked without trying to turn his body for a look at Sutton.
“My son.”
“Oh, I remember him,” the man said with a deranged chuckle. He wanted Sutton to pull the trigger and end his life, so he intended to play the part until the end. “He even looked a little bit like you.”
“Where is he buried?” Sutton pressed.
“They’re all near the cabins.”
Sutton couldn’t imagine why the man buried so many people outside of all five nearby cabins, except that he wouldn’t want the smell of death, or burned flesh, turning away potential victims.
Taking not particularly good aim, Sutton fired into the man’s lower backside, hoping to strike parts of the intestine, or perhaps a kidney. Yelping in pain, the young man seemed to accept the reversal of fate, because he didn’t try escaping or pleading for his life.
“Do you want to know why?” he asked instead.
“Not particularly,” Sutton answered, firing another shot that struck the back of the man’s left leg around the knee, cutting off realistic means of escape by running, walking, or limping into the woods.
Sutton looked ahead when he heard growls and throaty hissing emerging from the woods. Three members of the undead spotted him, and he slowly backed away, hoping they might discover the young man lying on the ground and provide him with a fitting end. All of them kept their eyes locked on Sutton, and he continued to walk backwards toward the cabin, prepared to defend himself against them if necessary.
As they were about to pass the killer, however, Sutton decided to try something. He took aim and put another bullet in the man’s right leg, causing him to yelp once again. The noise attracted the undead like piranhas to blood, and they dropped down immediately, sinking their teeth into various parts of his body. He screamed at first, then began laughing uncontrollably. Sutton’s expression went from relief to horror as the man made an effort to turn and face him, even as the zombies went about ripping portions of his skin and tendons from his body.
“You’re just like me,” the man said, continuing to laugh while his eyes locked on Sutton. “You’re poison.”
A few seconds later, the young man couldn’t help but scream as the undead dug deeper into his body, and two more appeared from the woods to help them feast. Sutton saw blood spurt from the man’s neck at one point, and he knew mere seconds separated the killer from death. He turned, walking back to the cabin where Driscoll waited on the porch. Only the sounds of the zombies feasting reached their ears at this point.
“You okay?” Sutton inquired.
“Not entirely,” Driscoll said, lifting his shirt to reveal the bite mark from earlier.
“Oh, God,” Sutton said, hoping he hadn’t caused anyone else in his group more suffering. “Was it one of these?”
“No,” Driscoll answered, forcing a smile. “I left with a head injury from earlier and got attacked between bouts of consciousness.”
Both sat silently a moment, watching the undead feast on the former killer of trespassers.
“You never pushed him for where your son was buried,” Driscoll noted aloud. “And I’m sorry for your loss, by the way.”
“Thanks,” Sutton replied. “I didn’t want to know, because I want to focus on the people I have left. Right now, that includes you, so maybe we should get you back and try one of those miracle cures.”
Sutton reached to assist Driscoll down from the porch, but the man waved him off.
“I’ll be okay. You going to take care of the dead so they don’t come after us?”
Without a word, Sutton drew his knife before walking over to the five zombies still munching on portions of the serial killer. He stopped about halfway to his destination because something else emerged from the woods running at top speed, coming straight for him.
“Buster!” Sutton exclaimed, dropping down to greet his dog, rubbing both sides of his head before scratching his ears
Buster seemed delighted to see his master as well, but he quickly turned to growl at the undead that took notice of his nearby run.
“Now he shows up,” Driscoll lamented, approaching them from behind.
“Where was he?” Sutton asked, stepping forward to stab the first approaching zombie in the skull.
“He walked with me out here until he spotted something in the woods and took off.”
“He probably smelled these things,” Sutton said.
Only one of the five continued to snack on the young man’s fresh corpse, and Sutton dealt with the remaining three that approached him in order of proximity. As usual, he exercised caution, stabbing them from the side so they couldn’t snap at him easily with their teeth. His blade got stuck in the third one’s skull, but he kicked the fourth one back while working the knife free, like a logger getting an axe unstuck from a fallen tree.
“Why was he with you?” Sutton asked a bit pointedly to Driscoll.
“Your son told me to take him. He said he’d protect me, which he did, until he didn’t.”
“Probably a good thing he took off,” Sutton commented. “The asshole probably would’ve shot him to make sure he could get to you.”
When Sutton approached the final zombie, which ignored him to gnaw on some unfolded intestines, he plunged the knife into the back of its skull, retracting it before the zombie dressed like a painter fell to the ground. His white coveralls, long since covered in blood and muck, began to match the graying skin along his face. Wiping his blade off along the already dirty clothes, Sutton knelt down, hearing a gasp of some sort beside him. Knowing the killer couldn’t have already begun his second life, Sutton stood quickly, taking a step back.
Staring down at the young man, he realized the killer hadn’t even died. Somehow the undead missed his vital organs, eating at various muscles in the arms and legs for the most part. Nearing the end now, however, the cold-hearted man no longer seemed to consciously understand anything around him as he stared blankly to his left, away from Sutton. He began choking on his own blood, which bothered Sutton, only because he believed the man deserved to be cognizant of his slow, painful, impending death.
He drew his sidearm, starting to take aim because Driscoll required medical attention, and drawing out the process endangered him all the more.
“Knife,” Driscoll said. “We don’t want more of them.”
“Probably more fitting anyway,” Sutton said, tucking the firearm behind him before his right hand reached for the blade.
As he did so, the young man took one final gasp, looking skyward at the dark clouds. Along his face, he almost appeared to be grinning, as though satisfied with his death. Sutton shook his head, not wanting to allow the man any of his final wishes. He swiped his hand along the man’s eyes, closing them, before using the knife in the side of the killer’s skull, ending the ordeal once and for all.
He thought about the trinkets inside the cabin, and all of the victims left in the wake of this man’s destruction. Sutton possessed his son’s driver’s license, having pocketed it before the killer returned. Leaving the trinkets in place might provide answers for friends or family of the deceased, if any were fortunate enough to make it alive to the campgrounds.
“Let’s get back,” Sutton suggested as Buster took his side, happily wagging his tail.
When they arrived back at the central cabin, everyone stepped outside to greet them. Sutton didn’t give them much in the way of highlights, but assured them the killer was dead, and wouldn’t be harming anyone again.
While Gracine took Driscoll inside to weigh his options, Sutton took Sean aside, and even Buster seemed to sense impending bad news, opting to walk away from the pair to check the perimeter and use the woods as his personal restroom.
“What is it?” Sean asked, evidently seeing concern in his father’s eyes.
“It’s Jacob,” Sutton answered.
“Oh, no,” Sean said, his eyes immediately welling up because he knew the news before even hearing it.
“I found some things inside the cabin, Sean. This guy had been doing this since the apocalypse began. Jake probably didn’t have a clue when he got here.”
Sutton used his son’s nickname, given to him the day he was born.
“What happened to him?” Sean asked, his tone indicating he might not really want to know.
“I don’t know exactly. There wasn’t a whole lot of conversation between me and the fucker who killed him.”
“We should search. Maybe the killer didn’t throw away all of their belongings.”
“What good would that do?” Sutton asked, thinking that dwelling on the matter only served to add to their anguish.
“I don’t want Jake to be just a memory that fades with time,” Sean said. “Our cabin is gone, and my cell phone has pictures, but it won’t last forever. I don’t have anything to remember him by.”
Sutton dug into his pocket and produced the driver’s license, handing it to his only remaining son.
“We’ll search all of the cabins before we leave the area,” Sutton assured him. “But we can’t stay here, Sean. Not after this.”
“I know,” Sean said, tears running down his cheeks one at a time.
Sutton pulled him into a hug, feeling his own tears forming at the corners of his eyes. He’d lost one of the reasons for battling the undead, and the living, for months on end. If not for finding Sean, he might have changed his perspective, or gone crazy after dealing with the serial killer.
Leaving Sean to process the information after a few minutes, Sutton went inside to find Gracine holding two syringes in front of Driscoll. One appeared pink, and the other a lime green color, indicating they were different sample batches. Luke and Samantha were in the other room where it looked as though Luke read a book to her to keep her mind occupied.
“It’s one or the other,” she said, holding a syringe in each hand. “Using both might cause one to counteract the other.”
Driscoll groaned at the decision, which might literally mean life or death.
“I hate pink,” he said, “but my gut tells me it’s the better shot for some reason. Maybe it’s the days of pink lemonade as a kid, I don’t know.”
Gracine pulled the cap off the needle.
“Pink it is.”
“Aren’t these things usually refrigerated?” Driscoll questioned.
“Isabella didn’t say shit about keeping them cold, so I think we’re good,” Gracine said. “And I’m not sure you have the luxury of being too picky.”
Driscoll accepted his fate, allowing Gracine to inject him with the pink serum. She placed a bandage across the puncture mark after that, since they didn’t have much in the way of medical supplies.
“Should we have waited for him to show symptoms before doing that?” Sutton asked Gracine once they were alone in another room a few minutes later.
“He was already sweating, and he was warm,” Gracine said. “Finding someone else who’s immune like Dan is one in a million, and I’m not sure the planet still has a million people.”
“It does,” Sutton said. “But most of them are assholes.”
“I hope he pulls through,” Gracine said, shaking her head somberly.
“You’ve all been giving him the cold shoulder since he joined us,” Sutton noted. “He’s not perfect, but he’s better than most people we’ve run across.”
“He apologized to us before searching for you. Seems he had some regrets.”
“Don’t we all,” Sutton said, his voice trailing off as he thought about losing a son, and costing Jillian her father because he didn’t act sooner.
“We’ll get through this,” Gracine said, taking his hand. “We always do.”
Sutton looked into the other room at Driscoll, wondering if her words would hold true. Too many times he’d been disappointed by outcomes since the end of the world. He hated when people knew they were going to die, and inevitably turn, because no words felt right, and there wasn’t much to say or do that comforted them.
He supposed soon enough they would learn if the formula was enough to save Driscoll. Even if it worked, how the hell would they let anyone know without compromising themselves?
And Metzger?
Fourteen
Four Days Later
During the first three days following the experimental vaccine’s injection into Driscoll’s system, Sutton held out hope that it might take. Driscoll remained in a flu-like state with sweating, fatigue, nausea, and body aches. Everyone kept a close eye on him, and Driscoll didn’t speak about burning up inside, or the extreme body chills that some people experienced when the end drew near.
