by Dan Yaeger
My shots had alerted them to my presence. “They know I am here,” I thought. In that moment, my entire world had caved-in.
It was an ambush; superstition welled in me, as it does in a man who faces death. I let myself entertain the idea that the spectre of Dane had been real and right in my fitful dream. Whether spectre or my subconscious, I knew things were grim and my mind had been presented with all the raw facts but I was too blind to see it. “Neo-zombies; she hated the term. Now I know why.” I thought to myself. I knew that one was in my bed, my home and my heart. And now a small army of them were here to rip out my heart like the chilling revelation that rocked my very core.
I had been blind.
Chapter 4: Bringing the Mountain to the Mountain Man
The revelation that Jen was infected was devastating. It was to face the massive loss; losing Jen was to lose everything. I went over it in my head as I lay there, still in the dirt. “Had she betrayed me? No. Never. It couldn't be.” I had to hold onto that.
I had faith her intentions were not sinister. I understood what had to be done. Now I could see everything as it was, I would fight to survive and fight for her.
In that moment I realised she wanted to feel something special, even if it meant succumbing slowly to the Divine virus. Jen wanted to experience something before she died. She was special, what we had was special. I reconciled that she had given up on a cure, given up on freedom and lost hope for the future. What we had shared was the then and there, something special, something forever.
She had obviously been ashamed and hiding the fact she was feeding herself breast milk to survive and I felt bad for her. “Maybe I shouldn't have been so hard-line on the “neo-zombies”?”
In that moment of realisation I hated myself for making her feel that prejudice, even unwittingly, I hated it. “If I hadn’t been so black and white and judged all by the same unbending ideal, she may have shared her plight with me,” the tears rolled as I lay still, still undetected by the death squad. They knew I was there and they were waiting for me.
“We could have been fighting our way into Cooleman and toward a cure. We should have been a team,” I whimpered a little. I had no regrets and no hate toward Jen. I loved her; by the gods I would have done anything for her. Even die so she could live.
“Die so she can live; interesting,” I thought. A plan was brewing. But I couldn’t ponder this any longer. I had to get focused, like I had so many times before, and survive. “Fight hard and don’t give up.” I told myself again.
What was eating me was that the situation I was in, right now, made it was a lose-lose game. If I killed all these guys, the cure wouldn’t happen and Jen would die. If I gave up and went with them as a prisoner I was sure Jen would die before I returned like a saviour with the cure. “Either way, I lose.” I thought. My mind raced and a conclusion was reached; “Maybe, just maybe I can lose the best way.” And that was what I did.
“You are still in the game, Jesse. It’s time to plan.”
My strategy was simple. The death squad had not found me yet and they didn’t know, really, if it was just me or a few, or where I was. I would stay concealed and pick them off. I had so much .22 ammo that I could pour fire onto windows and rock their worlds. They could and would be supressed for a while. It would give me time to kill as many as I could. There was unlikely to be more than a couple of squads and a Maeve-like lieutenant or two. Shots from a cheap, inaccurate .22 can still kill. I would kill and did on that day. “I will get back to you Jen,” I whispered.
On my belly like a cobra snake, I slithered backwards into the tree-line; unnoticed. I made it to a nice firing position about twenty meters into the bush and stayed down, getting myself organised. I had fangs in the form of rifles and venom in the form of bullets; a serpent preparing to strike.
Old Man was brought from shoulder and sling into my hands once more. I loaded him up with five fresh rounds. Maeve’s old rifle, Manila, was also unslung and loaded with five rounds. I unclipped Panther, Ebony and Bob; knife and two machetes. I removed the box of .22 ammunition, 94 rounds left and the five remaining new .308 rounds. I also had 10 low-grade reloaded rounds for close quarters.
I was prepared to create some mayhem and lure my enemies out. They would pay for whatever Jen had suffered with them or at their hands. They would pay for the fact that I was there and in that predicament. Sadness turned to cold rage.
This would be my finest hour in battle, even finer than the battle for Tanny Hill. Even if I had to die there, I felt I would die a better man for killing more of those scum. They would pay for not being good enough to find me in time for some hope of salvation for Jen.
They were expecting me to arrive like an oblivious fool but weren’t expecting what I was up to. They almost got me. “Did they really think I would walk into the Waystation like some idiot?” I thought. I knew that I was dealing with a death squad of sorts but they weren’t a Special Forces unit or exceptional in their tactics. If they had been, I would have been dead already. “Just a bunch of brutes and thugs,” I thought. I hated them in a cool and composed way, a silent, controlled hate stirred in me. The physical elements of me and my kit were in order, ready, yet tempered by something primal that switched into gear; go to war!
“Breathe, Jesse, breathe.” I was forcing myself to a calm state. “Control now: focus. Give them hell.”
I cycled the bolt on Manila, the old .22 rifle. The scope was pretty poor, not like the Austrian and German glass I was usually spoiled with but I would make this work. Despite the poor glass, I could see someone in one of the windows of the Waystation’s living room. He was peering out and appeared to be in prison overalls. These guys were hardened criminals and would show me no quarter. I would show them none either. It was on.
I swapped to Old Man; my .308 Mauser that had seen so much action and was so familiar, he was family of sorts. “Much clearer,” I thought, Old Man had good quality glass and its 4x magnification was better than that of Manila on 9x magnification. “Time to kill.”
“Ready; there’s no point procrastinating any further,” I thought, concluding my preparations. I held the peering criminal in my sights and aimed at the upper chest. A fresh 150 grain; it would tear a hole in him that he would never see or understand and would surely take his life. It was my big moment.
I squeezed the trigger, breathed out and felt the rifle kick comfortably and familiarly into my shoulder. My ears rang from the rifle’s repeat and a window was smashed as was a life. The Waystation was like an ants nest with a thrown rock on it. People were going everywhere and I tried to get a sense of what I was facing, and how many of them there were. I counted at least five enemies and I would later learn there were more like double that.
I had killed now, created a bit of panic with a heavy-hitting rifle, and it was now time to up the rate of fire. I would wound and maim and impair their capacity to hunt me down like a dog.
Click-clack: I cycled the bolt and reloaded Old Man. He had a full magazine again. This is how I maximised the time and the potential to kill before they were upon me. I placed him down slowly and gently and picked up Manila. Another scumbag in overalls was at the second window, this time the bedroom. I pulled the trigger slowly and with the low-calibre, characteristic “crack” of the .22 rifle, I fired the full magazine, aggressively and in quick succession. The neo-zombie dropped and I saw him hit in a few places and writhing around. None of them had binoculars and no-one had found my position “Rank fuckin’ amateurs,” I muttered to myself. They were not used to being shot at, probably just bullying others. I would later find out that I was right.
I slowly reloaded Manila and observed someone drag my writhing, pained victim away from the window. No more visits to the window.
I stayed in position, lying still, watching and waiting. There were shadows moving frantically and no lingering looks from the windows. I shot out another window with five quick shots from the .22. They were pinned down and I was fucking with
their minds. The panic continued: “Good.” I said to myself. I reloaded again carefully. My chances were looking better but I was in the woods, not out of them yet.
Then the death squad surprised me and I was inclined to respect them a little more as warriors. Three men came running from the front door of the Waystation. One was in bright, maximum security overalls and he zigged and zagged like a blowfly eluding a swat. I shot at them and loosed the full magazine, one dropped. Another man was tagged and the other ran into the tree-line at 50 meters to my left. They were way-off my position and had no idea where I was. The one in the overalls looked like a crazed wolf-man with a bandana, thick dark eye-brows and jagged teeth. Disturbing: “He was smiling?” I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Despite the unknown and the horror and death, this guy that was in my sights was enjoying it.
He was in the trees and I now felt like a wolf was hunting me down. I lay reasonably still and reloaded. One of my enemies was leaning up against a tree. I fired again and a gut shot brought him into a world of pain. He breathed there, panting and sighing; my binoculars revealed a nametag, I wasn’t going to name this bastard anyway. “Pullen”. I left Pullen there to go into shock while I scanned for his accomplice. I spotted him, stalking like a predator; the name on the tag was “Karnovic”. I wasn’t sure it was his name or someone he had taken the overalls from. Karnovic would do. He was only 20 meters away, sniffing the air and sporting an evil grin. I did another volley of five, .22 rounds. Some or all hit the mark and Karnovic dropped and howled like the wolf he reminded me of. My attention was away long enough to realise I wasn’t on top of the battlefield situation. I had to return to my original field of view.
They had used the time somewhat wisely. I saw 5 men in tactical positions, outside, out of the Waystation and hunting me down. There was one right in the open by the mailbox. He was lying in the prone position and looking in my general direction, the others didn’t seem to have a fix on me. I moved slowly and deliberately, trying not to be discovered; Old Man was in my hands again. I cycled the bolt, ready to fire, and the foe by the letterbox spotted me. He noticed the movement. Like a prize idiot he said “Hey guys! I see him! He’s-ccccghhhh!”
His ill-timed monologue was cut short after letting me know, so kindly, that he knew where I was. My reticule had centred on his dark haired head and with a fountain of red from his skull, he was ended. The noise of the rifle’s repeat, the smoke, the bolt cycling and the general direction my shots had come from were now narrowing-down my location for them. They would be onto me, I knew it.
I could hardly control my breathing and the feeling of impending doom was overwhelming and I was expecting to be overrun at any moment.
But what I felt was going to happen and what did happen was very different. A voice pervaded all and a moment of sheer terror ensued; it was as though death itself was talking to me “Thank you. Blood is sweeter than chocolate. It’s more nutritious to the soul than meat and vegetables, a gift.” the voice was from directly behind me and I didn’t move a centimetre. “A gift, yes a gift from you; thanks.” I could hear and feel the footfalls coming closer to me.” The voice that was awful, like death itself, continued in its seductive monologue. “Mine has wet my appetite and you will give me some more to savour and taste. What will yours taste like? It must be powerful,” the voice continued. I rolled over quickly and as if seeing the spectre of my own death. Karnovic, covered in blood, was standing over me with a long spear-like weapon. In that moment I knew who he was and what he was. I remembered the news reports and the headlines on the Internet; that face! It was Xavier Karnovic; one of the most depraved and sick violent criminals of my time. He was infamous, legendary, and almost mythical in his depravity and I could see the whites of his eyes.
He stared at me, as though he were looking at a meal and attractive woman at the same time. If he had been at his best, I would have been dead already. But little .22 rounds had limited his capacity to function and he was bleeding out.
In the split second that I saw this devil, I pulled the trigger, without a great deal of aim, and shot him through his torso. He opened up like a popped sausage. To my surprise, he stood there, looked and smiled. The pain threshold and control was not human. I was up close and personal with a hybrid zombie-psychopath. He lurched forward, looking differently, greedily at me with a renewed hunger.
From the house I heard a voice say “Xavier’s got him; he’s done! Just wait for him to do his work.” Not on my watch. Their arrogance and confidence in the natural-born-killer bought me some time and probably saved my life.
Terror itself launched at me. I circled deftly but this beast pre-empted my move and his spear-blade caught me in the side. It was a nasty cut and I had that horrible feeling of the blade sinking into my flesh. We were both bleeding now; he was far worse and I would use that to my advantage.
I unsheathed Bob, my nasty machete and hacked at him. To my surprise, he used his own arm to block the blow like an ancient warrior would with a shield. I almost severed his arm through and he kept coming. Xavier was a pretty unique predator at the best of times, but I could see significant physiological signs of the zombie virus pushing him to turning point. He still had control over his mind, no matter how sick that was. Pain and wounds meant little to him but he could not overcome the basics of biomechanics. The devastating wounds were taking away his capability to kill.
I locked eyes with him again as a furious, whirling spear attack came my way. I side-stepped and parried with Bob. Xavier’s gaze told me everything; he wanted to drink me in, butcher my body and take my soul. I was not going to give him that pleasure.
I switched off my humanity for a moment and fought on raw instinct; autopilot. Striking and parrying blows like two duelling samurai, we battled on with an audience at the Waystation looking onto our shadow play. Blades arced, blood flowed and nasty wounds appeared on both us. We squared off, once more. I noticed Xavier was losing himself to the virus; dying and transitioning from his psychopath’s mind into the slavering zombie that ran on instinct. He smiled at me as I regarded him and we clashed once more.
Instead of a predictable hacking attack with my machete, I mixed it up and it worked. I hit him really hard across the bridge of the nose with the handle of my machete and altered his appearance for good. I put a knee into his balls and again, his pain threshold and mental state did nothing to double him over or stun him in any way. Any normal man would have buckled under what I had dished out. Pain or no pain, his injuries were taking their toll, his blood pressure must have been getting low, and he was becoming more feeble and predictable. A few gunshot wounds and mortal blows from a machete will do that.
He was just as ferocious in his resolve as if he was unhurt. But his body could not keep up with the demon inside him. Like a wild animal he swung and spun and bit and stabbed and scratched and lunged as I fought him for my life. We clashed together, blade on blade and he whispered “We aren’t so different you and I,” the comment and thought chilled me to the core. His moment of reflection spelled an opportunity. I took it and he bled all over me.
The battle went to the ground as I swept his legs and landed an awful, almost skull crushing blow on the way down. His skull was sandwiched between a rock and my elbow; still he kept on. We wrestled each other for control and I felt the noose tightening as I lost precious seconds in melee with Karnovic. I could hear the others creeping and calling, getting closer. Xavier wasn’t my only enemy and they would soon work out that the impossible would be possible; Xavier would lose.
“Focus Jesse, focus,” I thought as the battle raged and I stuck him with elbows and fist from the ground. He punched upward and hit me in the arm with an awkward blow. My hand released my machete and it settled next to me. “I need a weapon; just a moment to grab a weapon is all I need!” I thought as the melee intensified with fists and claws shooting up at me. He was shaking, writhing and convulsing; bleeding everywhere as the melee intensified. “Never give up!” Punch, elbow, s
truggle: I felt his collar bone snap. “I can beat him; I will get out of this!” I thought as I ripped into him with a rib punch. The sound of his lungs and ribs giving sounded like a leaking, wheezing balloon and I knew it was time to end it for Xavier Karnovic.
I was in a full mount position on top of that wild animal and I quickly found and loosed my hardened steel bowie knife. It was razor sharp and heavy; I brought the Panther down into the face of what nightmares are made of.
Xavier was accustomed to capitalising on the hurt, fear and submissive terror in his victims. The look on his face was of disbelief as I stared at him without such things. I defied him, all that fear and death itself, despite my natural instincts to do otherwise. I had overcome him, he knew he was dead and had just worked it out. That face and expression would stay with me forevermore.
Like Perseus, St George, Thor or other great beast-slaying legends from human mythos, I stabbed repeatedly and resolutely to destroy this monster; it was my purpose. I stabbed until there was very little face or head left. Triumphantly, I got up a little into in a kneeling position and yelled “YYYYYYYYYeah!” as the beast was in its death throes. I held Panther aloft as my Excalibur and ignored, just for a moment the covering fire that rained on this bushland that the enemy could not easily survey.
I faintly heard someone’s disbelief; “What the fuck? Xavier?! You got him right?” No answer and a wrong bet.
Karnovic’s body was convulsing and erupting in an instant. He had one last horror, one last gift. With inhuman force my strong frame was launched off of him and onto my back near my original firing position.
I watched Xavier Karnovic turn into a zombie, right before my eyes. I was stunned, horrified and realised I hadn’t finished the job and destroyed the brain or spinal cord. I stared into a different but equally dangerous face of death which looked into my soul with hate, hunger and intent. Just when I thought it was over, we had another round to fight.
