Hawk’s attention drifted to something he felt in the distance, advancing fast. The Hunger. He doubted the Architect had allowed himself to sink so deep, to let the virus overtake him so soon after gaining his powers. How would he fare with the Hunger upon him?
Hawk could sense the Architect’s immense power even now, a shining beacon of light, still attached to those six remaining figures imprisoned beneath him in the Sphere.
Hawk threw precaution to the wind and allowed himself to flutter on the fringes of a dream, part of his consciousness returning to the communication center. The sounds were muffled with the indistinct clatter of machines and whispered voices. He removed his headset and used the cable to wrap around his arm and strap himself to the desk.
The Architect cocked his head to one side. “And where do you think you’re wandering off to, Hawk? Come. Stay with me. Here.”
He grabbed Hawk by the arm and pinned him to the darkness. Hawk lost control of his physical self and stumbled, surprised to find himself back in his dark place.
“You don’t need to do this—”
A snake wrapped about Hawk’s throat and drew tight. The snake slithered around his neck and balanced hypnotically in front of his face.
Hawk snatched the snake but found only a thread attached to a rope that drew even tighter around his neck. He panicked and tugged at the rope, but every time he reached for it, his fingers slid through it.
The Architect sighed. “That’s your problem, Hawk. You have no imagination. The world has no place for such people. And neither do I.”
The rope snapped taut and raised Hawk off his feet. He hung there, the rope fading into infinite darkness. Hawk grabbed the rope but could not pull himself up to relieve the pressure.
And then he remembered.
He was already dead. A Walker did not breathe, had no use for oxygen. He was already dead.
He opened himself up to the Hunger as it drew closer. It was his only chance at salvation now, the thing that always threatened to destroy him.
“You are weak, Hawk,” the Architect said. “And I have no place for weakness.”
The Hunger slipped from the darkness. Hawk watched as its tendrils extended further forward, toward the Architect. Hawk held his breath and prayed the Architect would not turn around, would not sense the creature there.
The Architect stepped forward and produced a long blade from beneath the folds of his shirt. He held it up for Hawk to inspect. “The rules of this world are a strange thing, but do you know what I think? I think if you die here—if you really die—you die out there. Shall we test?”
He held Hawk’s hand and slid the blade across it.
Hawk grunted and there, on the fringes of his consciousness, he felt it. The palm of his hand opening up and the blood easing from the cut onto the floor.
“You feel it, don’t you?” the Architect said. “I promise not to draw out your death. It has already been too long in the coming.”
He pulled his arm back to unleash the swipe that would end Hawk’s suffering when—
A tendril snapped around the Architect’s arm. He dropped the blade and it faded from existence before it hit the ground.
“What is this?” the Architect said. “Hawk, I apologize. I underestimated you. But it’s not going to save you.”
He produced a blade in his free hand and pulled it back to stab viciously at Hawk’s neck.
Another tendril snapped from the darkness and latched around the Architect’s arm.
The Architect growled between his teeth.
Two more tendrils, this time gripping around the Architect’s ankles.
The rope popped into a puff of smoke and Hawk fell to his feet.
“Let me go, Hawk!” the Architect said. “Let me go or so help me I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” Hawk struggled to cling to the part of him that remained alive. “You’ve already done terrible things to us. What more can you do?”
“You’ll see. I’ll—”
Hawk produced a blade and rammed it into the Architect’s ribs. “You talk too much. There’s something about being undead you haven’t experienced yet. The Hunger. And you don’t only have to deal with your own, but that of those you command and control. All of them. And it will consume you if you let it.”
The Architect’s eyes widened. “I cannot be defeated—”
“No. This is merely a battle, not the war. The tide is already turning. Return to your body before the Hunger consumes you.”
“I will not run!” the Architect spat. “I am god over all undead! The Hunger is nothing!”
“Then you misunderstand the nature of the undead. The Hunger is everything.”
The Architect screamed as the Hunger—Hawk’s Hunger—squeezed him so tight he almost burst, and then dragged him away, into the darkness to consume.
“This isn’t over,” the Architect screamed. “This isn’t over!”
The Architect winked out of existence, the tendrils losing their grip on their prey.
Hawk gasped, shocked at his victory. He laughed and held his hands up victoriously.
The Hunger snapped a tendril about his forearm.
Hawk looked at it. “As for you, it’s about time we put you back in your box.”
41.
THE ARCHITECT
The Architect’s eyes burst open. He fell from his chair and pulled against his restraints, looking this way and that like a drowned man who’d been given the kiss of life.
He could still feel it, that monster in the dark recesses of his mind, pressing, prying, grasping at him, like lungs desperate to take a breath but couldn’t. That was what the monster felt like, and it was a sensation the Architect didn’t much relish savoring again. It was the sense of impending doom, when there was nothing he could do but succumb to it.
He pulled the cover off the armrest and took out a syringe loaded with the blood his body craved. He spilled a dozen others across the floor. Now he was aware of the Hunger that afflicted the undead, knew of its existence and its power over his subjects. He’d seen stats and reports on the phenomenon. They did nothing to prepare him for the actual sensation. It was unbearable, painful, and when he stabbed that tiny lance into his arm and injected its contents into his system, his entire body relaxed. The monster they called Hunger drifted from the shores of his consciousness, back into the nether reaches of his deep subconscious, to prowl and fester until it grew strong enough once more to attack him with its cravings.
The Architect had never felt the keen sting of fear before, but now he felt it, and it sent a shiver through his body like the edge of a cold blade pressed against his skin. He promised himself he would never feel that pain again.
Not ever.
42.
SAM
Sam and Albert had maintained their stance since the battle commenced. More than one soldier saw the oddly-designed weapons and gave them a doubletake before assuming they were nothing more than toy guns. They certainly looked like that.
“How are we looking, do you think?” Albert said.
Sam appraised the undead army. They’d broken through the second barricade and were fast approaching their position behind the first. Just ahead of the undead, barely keeping them off their heels, soldiers from the second barricade struggled to reach them.
Sam glanced over her shoulder at the city. Not far to go now.
“I think we’ll be seeing some action before long,” she said.
Sam didn’t want to turn tail and run, but their mission was to end the war, not kill a few zombies. Much better for them to keep pulling back until they reached a better location from which to launch an effective attack and tear a hole through the Architect’s heart. They weren’t going to do that sitting where they were.
Peering at the other soldiers and civilians standing shoulder-to-shoulder to fight for their homes and families, she felt a thick twinge of guilt in her stomach. Most of them were going to die if she and Albert pulled back. Or worse.
<
br /> A buxom undead girl with flaming red hair stumbled, sending her breasts flapping every which way. The undead were getting close now. Sam had to make a decision.
Albert glanced at the approaching horde and then at Sam. “Tommy said—”
“I know what Tommy said,” Sam snapped. “I was there too, remember?”
Albert studied her expression with keen interest. Yes, there was something very strange about this man.
“I’m sorry,” Sam said. “I know what he said is the right thing to do, but I don’t like the idea of leaving these people here. We have the most powerful weapons. We should be protecting them.”
“We are protecting them.”
“By running away? It sure doesn’t feel like it.”
“We should stick to Tommy’s plan, but if you want to do it differently, I’m right behind you.”
Sam was surprised. “You would follow me?”
“I am following you.”
Sam didn’t know what to say to that. She weighed up the options but already knew there was only one real choice. Tommy’s plan. The only way to truly win was to wipe out the Architect, no matter how it made her feel to leave these poor local people behind. She had to play her part.
“We’ll pull back,” she said, choking on every word.
“Wait. Look.”
She followed Albert’s crooked finger. The undead slowed their lumbering gait and turned their backs on the barricade. Then they headed in the opposite direction.
Murmurs amongst the soldiers and locals. “Are they surrendering?” a lad with an eyepatch said. “Are they retreating?”
Hope could make you believe almost anything. It didn’t sound like something the undead would do to her. The Architect was up to something, and if she knew the Architect—and she wished she didn’t—it couldn’t be anything good.
The plan had shifted and they were now entering new territory. They needed to change with it.
“Come on,” Sam said.
“I thought we were sticking to the plan?”
“We are. But it’s not our plan that’s changed.”
43.
THE ARCHITECT
Every bolt that delivered its cargo of death was a blow to the Architect’s heart, a dagger buried deep in his pulsing eye sockets and a release of fresh agony more painful than the last.
Three! He’d lost three of his special units already. Three! That left him with four to draw upon. His power was already waning. If he didn’t do something soon, it was over.
He pulled his entire army away from the attack on the city and focused them on the small cluster of Walkers. It was pointless attempting to take a city if he couldn’t survive these people.
He turned the Sphere toward them and rolled forward. If he couldn’t psychically overpower them, he would use a more rudimentary weapon to dispose of them.
Time for some squishy squishy.
44.
TOMMY
“He’s going to crush us!” Guy screamed. “We have to get out of here!”
The Sphere was fast and would reach them first. The undead would act as the mop-up crew. Any members the Sphere failed to squash would be torn apart by the undead.
Turn and run, and they were doomed. Stand and fight and they might just succeed in weakening the Sphere enough for Sam and Albert to finish it off. With the Sphere coming so close, it provided them with an opportunity.
“Guys! Open fire on the Sphere!”
“What?” Emin shouted. “Are you crazy? We have to get out of here!”
Tommy spoke clearly, slowly. “We won’t get out of here. Even if we somehow manage to avoid the Sphere, the undead will get us. Our best bet is taking out those creatures as Hawk said. If we can do that, it’ll be easier for Sam and Albert to take the Architect out.”
“If we miss—”
Tommy braced Emin’s arm and looked into her eyes. “We won’t miss.”
Emin looked at Jimmy, on the verge of breaking down, and begging Tommy to at least let him go.
“Who will take care of him if you’re not here?” Tommy said. “At least this way, it’ll be fast.”
Emin pressed a hand over her mouth. It was too much to take.
This was it. Their moment of truth. Emin and Guy might have had their reservations, but Jimmy had a strong, confident look in his eye.
“Ever since the day we died, we’ve been living on borrowed time,” Tommy said. “The first time we died, it was because of the man racing toward us and his warped mind. This time, we die on our terms. No one else’s. No traps. No lies.”
Tommy held out a hand like a sports coach. “We’re the Death Squad. We live and die together. Let’s give this bastard what for.”
Guy placed his hand on Tommy’s. Jimmy’s was there a moment later. Emin’s came last, still concerned about the boy beside her.
“I’m proud to have you all on my team,” Tommy said. “You could look for a hundred years and never find a happier man.”
That gained smiles. They were tainted with concern, fear, trepidation. Tommy understood. He felt the same. It wasn’t like he would willingly choose to give up ever seeing Sam again.
The Sphere rumbled and turned up the soil and the earth shook, and still, the Death Squad held their ground as the Sphere barreled toward them faster than Tommy would have believed possible. The undead army ran as fast as their malformed bodies could manage but they wouldn’t arrive for at least a couple more minutes.
That was their window. A handful of minutes to save the world.
The Death Squad took up position and raised their rifles. They aimed at the carriage directly beneath where the Architect sat. Along that line, according to Hawk, was where they should open fire.
I sure hope you’re right, old friend.
“Now!” Tommy bellowed.
They opened fire.
45.
HAWK
Hawk opened his eyes and was surprised to find a little girl poking him in the face. She was no older than six or seven, with the cutest dimples he’d ever seen. The pink bow in her blonde curls took away somewhat from the concerned expression she wore on her face.
“All right, all right,” Hawk said. “I’m up. I’m up.”
He stretched and found his arm strapped to the table’s leg. He unwound it and crawled out from under the desk. As he stood at his full height, the little girl had to arch her neck to peer up at him. The shawl had fallen away from Hawk’s face, and he hastily brought it back up and tucked it in. He was surprised the girl didn’t react with horror and instead turned and skipped away.
Bam!
A powerful shockwave struck him in the chest, near knocking him off his feet. He staggered and stabilized himself on the table’s edge.
“Guys. . .”
Worried for his friends, he waited for the world to stop spinning before reaching out for them. The communication center was blithely unaware of what he’d picked up on and continued with the same monotonous chatter of voices and messages being passed from one hand to another.
And his friends. . . He gasped when he located them—on the verge of being crushed beneath what looked to be an enormous bowling ball. It even had the finger holes in the side—inflicted by the space-age weaponry the guys had stolen.
Hawk screamed at them to get out of the way, so loud in his mind that he even bellowed it from his physical lungs: “Run!”
The low-level chatter in the room stopped and they turned to peer in the direction of this strange individual, before turning back to their monitors to continue working. They had no time to suffer breakdowns. They had a city to save.
Hawk fell into his swivel chair and focused on his friends. They dove aside, the Sphere crushing rocks where an instant ago they had been standing.
The Sphere pivoted and turned, chasing after the individuals who’d dived right.
Hawk couldn’t sit idly by while his friends faced having their life extinguished before his eyes. He turned his attention to one individual.
. .
The Architect in the driving seat. The pain burst into light behind his right eye and he pushed—hard—against that block he felt sitting in the Sphere’s driving seat. He beat upon it with the fleshy part of his hands with a heavy thud thud thud but the Architect’s defenses didn’t wane. He was still much too strong and possessed too many living puppets beneath his undercarriage.
The puppets. . . They weren’t nearly so well protected. Weaker than the Architect himself, he’d held them in disdain and chained them to the floor of his Sphere-shaped tank.
Hawk reached for them and found them just as he expected. Unprotected, exposed, and open to the elements. He couldn’t access the main computer system that was the Architect, so he would access them instead.
He smiled. This time, he met with greater success.
46.
THE ARCHITECT
The agonizing pain behind the Architect’s left eye lessened; from a piercing migraine to a regular headache. And his power had waned. What’d happened?
He checked the creatures holed up in his undercarriage. The Death Squad had successfully destroyed two of his finest specimens, but they hadn’t reached them all. Two remained in place, and even as the Death Squad fired their plasma pistols, they didn’t know with any degree of accuracy where the puppets were being held.
No, the puppets were still there, but they were not alone. The creature known as Hawk was with them. And he was hurting them, forcing them to bang their heads against their protective casing. It had been softened, reinforced with soft padding, but no amount of padding could protect them forever.
The Architect ground his teeth. He couldn’t fight the Death Squad and defend his puppets. He had to pick one or the other. He opted for the puppets. Without them, he wouldn’t have the strength to overpower Hawk and the others, and he would need to. He ground the Sphere to a stop and reversed, sending the undead to deal with the Death Squad as he seized Hawk’s consciousness and threw him from his Sphere.
Death Squad (Book 4): Zombie World Page 23
