Legion of the Undead

by Michael Whitehead

  “Damn it,” Decimus said with a grimace.

  “Do we need food, if we have water?” Marcus asked, but his own empty stomach answered for him.

  “If you want to live more than a few days you do, boy,” the old man said.

  “Where do we get food then?”

  The old man looked out over the beach, sending chills down the boy’s back. The creatures were still there, moving about, seemingly with nowhere to go. There were far too many of them to allow the three men to move about freely.

  It was Quintus who seemed to find a solution. He gestured for his partners to stay where they were, as he reached beneath his tunic and produced a copper coin. He looked at it with regret and then flipped it with his thumb onto the wooden jetty at the far side of the creature where it landed with a tapping sound.

  The change in the thing was immediate. Its head snapped round and its face showed the hunger of a predator. It stalked a few steps toward the noise, its eyes moving constantly. It snarled, its mouth filled with broken teeth that protruded from blackened gums.

  Quintus hid behind the wooden ship’s side, a look of fear etched into his features. Marcus held his breath and realised every muscle in his body was tense. Eventually the creature seemed to make up its mind that there was no danger, or any prey. It eased out of its heightened state and back into its former stupor.

  Quintus returned to them, a look of hope on his face.

  “How did you know that would work?” Marcus asked, his voice a mere breath now that he had seen the demonstration.

  “I didn’t, it was a guess,” Quintus replied. “My father was a hunter. We used to scare deer into our traps with noise. I just figured it was worth seeming how those things would react.”

  “How do we use what we know?” asked Decimus. “We don’t want to attract them to us, do we?”

  “No, but we could make them move away, if we could make enough noise,” Marcus said, already guessing what Quintus was thinking.

  “If we could get them over the other side of the beach, we might have enough time to find some food and get it to this ship,” Quintus added, nodding. As they hatched their plan the creature on the jetty continued to look up at the cloud shrouded moon, a look of dead-eyed vacuity on its face.

  Marcus shivered almost uncontrollably on the deck of the first ship. Someone draped a dry a sheet around his shoulders that he thought might be a square of sail cloth. The second swim across the bay had been almost too much for him to manage but the three of them had decided that they must get back to the first ship in order to put their plan into action. He had thought about waiting on the second vessel, but the idea of sitting alone, so close to the creatures had been enough to force him into the water once more.

  Quintus and Decimus didn’t seem to be feeling the cold of the water. In fact, neither man had even bothered to strip out of their wet tunics, they simply continued talking to their crew mates about what they had found and the plan they had formed.

  The rest of the crew listened intently, while Caesius knelt by his apprentice and listened while he rubbed the boys arms and shoulders, helping him bring life back to his frozen limbs. Finally, when everyone had heard the scheme that the three scouts had devised, it was decided that, with no other ideas forthcoming, they would act.

  They spent a few minutes dividing themselves into two roughly equal groups. The first of which would return to the ship that lay at the jetty. Marcus found his heart sinking as he realised he would have to make the swim a third time. His arms, now warmer than they had been, ached at the thought of another dip into the water. This time Caesius would make the swim as well, because the second group would have the harder, and much more dangerous job.

  Those that remained on the ship would be the decoys. They would also need to be the strongest swimmers, because the distance they would need to cover would be much greater. Quintus had agreed to lead the decoy group, while Decimus was to return to the second ship as the leader of that team.

  It was with dread that Marcus lowered himself back into the sea, but surrounded by the crew, he knew he couldn’t let himself down. Somehow the idea of seeming weak in front of these men gave him iron in his muscles that had been lacking on the previous crossings.

  As he swam he looked to his left and saw Caesius silhouetted against the light of the torches on the beach. Between his master and the fire he could also see how many of the monsters were now in the pirate village and what he saw scared him. When they had first come on deck, they had struggled to pick out more than half a dozen of the creatures, now there were easily a hundred.

  He climbed the ladder and joined the silent men on the deck of the second pirate vessel. Almost as soon as he emerged from the water he was moving toward the stern, and looking out toward land, wanting to make sure his eyes had been telling the truth.

  Sure enough, there were now crowds of the monsters wandering the beach. He could see at least three groups that had twenty creatures, four more that had close to ten and several smaller collections. A hundred had been a conservative estimate. Had these been insects, Marcus would have called them a swarm.

  “Their numbers are growing,” Decimus said from behind him. Marcus turned to see both his new friend and his master huddled down to keep out of sight of the creatures on the beach.

  “Where are they all coming from?” Caesius asked.

  “A few of them look like the men who took us prisoner,” Decimus said. “The rest, I have no idea. Whatever has happened here, I’m not sure it’s local.”

  “You think some of the pirates are among those creatures? What are you saying, you think they changed? Somehow became monsters?” Marcus asked. As he spoke he realised he was raising his voice and lowered it again.

  There was the sound of a scuffle from the jetty. Marcus raised himself so that he could see over the side of the boat. Three of the crew were standing over the body of the creature who had been standing there. The back of its skull was split and bloodied from where it had been attacked from behind.

  “I don’t know what I’m saying,” Decimus continued. “All I can say for sure is that Some of those men look familiar. Others? Well, I saw one wearing legion armour and another who looked like a priest. Whatever has happened seems to have happened all over. It just makes me think we are doing the right thing in stocking up the ship as much as we can.”

  As if he had given them a signal by speaking these words, the ship in the bay began to move. A number of the oars had been withdrawn, giving those that remained the chance to be used without fouling. Those that were still in the water began to rise and fall, slowly giving the ship motion.

  When the vessel had gathered enough speed that momentum would carry it on to the beach, the oars dropped to the water. Marcus watched as the men who remained on board began to shout, and the light of a few burning torches began to show on the deck.

  The reaction on the beach was immediate. Every pair of eyes turned in the direction of the movement, light, and sound. Those nearest the waterline began walking into the sea, heading straight toward the sounds of human voices. Those further back began walking down the beach, following each other like cattle at feeding time.

  The men around Marcus watched, tense and ready for Decimus to give the word. The old man held up a hand, wanting to time the moment properly. He studied the creatures on the nearest part of the beach, waiting for their focus to be consumed by what was occurring at the far end of the bay.

  The ship was alight now, the sail that flapped in the breeze and sent smoke and ash into the night sky. By the light of the blaze, Marcus saw men dive from the back of the ship. They were no more than shadows that disappeared into the water, but he knew the rest of the plan and knew they were swimming toward the jetty.

  “Now,” Decimus said, drawing Marcus back to what he was doing. The rest of the crew dropped off the side of the ship and began moving toward the low huts on the beach. Marcus followed, landing on the jetty, his heart racing.

  Th
ey moved silently, but the creature’s attention was now fixed on the burning ship as it drifted toward the beach. The fire lit the night sky, making Marcus’s job easier as he moved toward a long, windowless hut that was slightly bigger than the rest. As they had planned on the ship, he was followed by half a dozen men. Around them, Men scattered themselves among the buildings, trying to cover as much ground as possible.

  By the time Marcus opened the door in the end of the hut, some men were already making the return journey, carrying bundles wrapped in cloth and clay pots. This was to be a quick mission, they had agreed not to waste time being picky, and most of them probably didn’t know what they were carrying.

  The hut was a store, as they had hoped it would be. Shelves and hooks held dried meat and fish, bottles of olive oil, and bowls of salt among other things. He heard one of the men behind him let out a sigh of relief.

  “Quickly, take this,” Marcus said, taking a heavy joint of meat that looked like a leg of lamb from a shelf and thrusting it into the arms of one of the waiting sailors. The man caught the meat, turned and ran from the hut. A second man took a similar load from the other side of the hut and followed his ship mate. Within moments each man was out of the door carrying an armful of meat or fish.

  Marcus turned to take up his own burden, ready to follow the last pair of heels out of the door, but a hand grabbed his heel from behind. He tried to step away from the grip but it was far too strong, instead he twisted, fell to the ground and looked back in panic expecting to see one of the creatures.

  Instead he looked into the wild eyes of Hortius, the pirate captain. The man’s face was covered in blood, his hands and arms were smeared with black, oily fluid to which sand had caked itself. His eyes were not those of one of the creatures, but it was as if a fire had been set behind his eyes and it had burned away his sanity.

  Hortius held a short blade in his free hand and be brought it down hard, meaning to drive it into Marcus’s forehead. The boy twisted, feeling the metal score across his ear. The pain was sharp and immediate, but it served to give Marcus the will to fight.

  He kicked out with his free foot, feeling his heel contact with Hortius’s nose. There was a cracking sound and fresh blood poured down the pirate’s tunic, but he gave no sign that he had felt the blow. He raised the knife again, and Marcus kicked at the hand that held it in desperation.

  The knife flew across the floor of the wooden hut with a clatter, coming to a stop near the door. Marcus gave three more frantic kicks, feeling each glance off their target, and threw out an arm in the vain hope of reaching the knife.

  Either Hortius had not realised his hand was now empty, or he didn’t care, but he continued to attack Marcus as if he was stabbing at him. Blows rained down on the boy and he twisted, feeling the captain’s grip loosen. He sprung up, lunging for the blade, gripped the handle and turned back to Hortius.

  The blow that killed the pirate was his own. He loomed over Marcus, blotting out the scant light that found its way into the hut. He came down, meaning to hammer a fist into Marcus’s face, but his hand slipped on a patch of his own blood. He dropped onto the upturned blade, driving it deep into his chest. The handle drove its way into the boys shoulder, but the pirates eyes had lit up with pain and surprise.

  Marcus stared up at Hortius, there faces mere inches apart and saw the knowledge that he was about to die find a home there. The pirate coughed once, spraying Marcus’s face with a mist of blood, then his head dropped, thumping into the boy’s shoulder.

  Marcus rolled himself out from under the dead man, then lay on his back, panting heavily. His heart raced as he climbed to his knees and then stood up, looking down at the body of the man who had caused him so much hurt. He kicked Hortius, but the body was just a piece of meat.

  Still breathing hard, adrenaline rushing through him, he reached for a joint of meat and stepped back through the door of the hut. The ship was on the beach now, fully ablaze and surrounded by the creatures. Some just stared at the fire, so close that their skin must be burning, while others seemed to be trying to get aboard, ignorant of the roaring flames.

  A few had begun to drift away, however. They seemed to have lost interest on finding no people aboard. Marcus found that, despite his need to hurry, his feet had stopped and he was watching the creatures.

  Those that remained around the burning ship were like children. They stared with innocent wonder, lost in the movement of the flames. As he watched a few more of them turned away, like people in a crowd after the excitement has ended.

  A hand grabbed at the back of his tunic and he turned to see one of the creatures an arms length away. He pushed at its chest in panic and felt the skin beneath his hands shift and move over its rotting flesh. The creature stepped back to regain its balance and Marcus ran.

  His feet dug into the dry sand as he tried to escape the grasping hands, making his legs heavy. His heart pounded and the blood pulsed hard at his temples. Another of the creatures ran at him from the right and he skipped out of its way. As he did, he realised he was still holding his burden. He dropped it to the sand and ran on.

  Up ahead the ship was gently easing away from the jetty. Caesius gestured, silently urging him to greater speed. A few of the crew watched him from the deck, but most were working on freeing the vessel from its moorings.

  The gap was almost too far to jump when his feet found the jetty. He ran the last few yards along the wooden walkway, then leaped at the side of the ship. His arms and legs wheeled in the air, as if they could drive him to greater distance, then he was clinging to the side of the ship.

  He scrambled to climb aboard, his feet slipping on the wooden sides, then one of the creatures hit him in the back. It clamped onto one of his shoulders, dragging him down toward the water below. He clung to the side of the ship, trying to call for help but his voice was failing him.

  His fingers began to slip, losing purchase and he knew he must fall, then something appeared over his head. Decimus swung the sword that Hortius had taken from Menelaus, cleaving into the creature and freeing Marcus of its weight. Despite this, Marcus felt his strength leave him and he slipped from the side.

  A hand grasped at his wrist. Holding him above the water that now moved beneath him with increasing speed. Quintus smiled down at him as he was joined by Caesius, and the two pulled Marcus to safety.

  The boy flopped onto the deck, gasping like a fish. The world spun around his head and the voices of the crew spiralled in his head. He lay where he was for a moment, looking up into his master’s laughing face.

  “You scared me, boy,” Caesius said.

  “I scared me, too,” Marcus managed through panting breaths. He sat up, then got to his feet and walked to the back of the ship. On the beach the creatures were standing and watching their prey escape into the night. Where there had been a few, there now stood as many as a thousand.

  “It feels like the world has changed,” Caesius said, unknowingly speaking the thoughts in Marcus’s head.

  The boy simply stared.

  Demons

  By

  Michael

  Whitehead

  Demons

  Day was no more than a vague promise of bruised purple sky that peeked between the pines as Harold woke. He sat up, brushed his long hair out of his eyes and glanced around him. He was the first of the eight boys to wake, for a moment he relished the silence. He shivered and rubbed his hands up his arms in an attempt to make his blood flow.

  He found a short stick and poked at the ashes of last night’s campfire. The crust of cold, white ash fell away, revealing a small bed of dull orange embers. Quickly, before they lost their heat, he added a few twigs and blew gently beneath them. He was rewarded with a wisp of smoke, then a small flame. Before long, he was holding out his hands, gathering as much of the heat as he could from the resurrected fire.

  From behind him, Harold heard the first of the other boys stir from sleep. He turned to see Gervin rubbing his face and yawning. He sa
t up, his dirty blond hair sticking up like reeds in a pond.

  “I forgot where we were, for a moment,” Gervin said, looking about. More of the boys were waking now, coming back to the world from wherever their dreams had taken them.

  Harold looked up at the sky. The morning mist was clearing, replacing the purple haze with the first real light of dawn. It would be no more than an hour before they could begin. It was the one rule their fathers had told them could not be broken. None of the boys would dare to do so, through fear of the others calling them out on their return to the village.

  Harold got up from his place by the fire and moved to the edge of the clearing they had used as their camp. He loosened his trousers and let his morning water pass on to the base of a sapling. As he relieved himself, he stared blankly in to the trees and remembered back to the night before.

  Their fathers had walked with them for the three days it had taken to reach this place of ceremony. They all wore their best leather armour and decorative metal charms. It was a sign of how seriously they took this rite of passage.

  They had camped at night, giving the boys lessons on wood craft, fire building, and hunting. All of them had grown up learning the ways of the forest. Harold had an idea that these last lessons were for their fathers’ benefit as much as that of the boys.

  Now that they had reached fourteen summers, and the time of their manhood test, such instruction would come to an end. The boys all seemed to know that this made their fathers sad in a way that they could never admit.

  Toward the end of the third day, without a word or signal, their fathers had stopped in this clearing. The edge of circle was marked with small standing stones, and the ground was clear of saplings and undergrowth. Harold had no idea who tended this clearing, but in the middle of such wild forest this was obviously a sacred place.

  Their fathers had stood off to one side, passing a flask between them in silence. They watched as the boys shrugged off their packs and waited for someone to speak.