Z-Town

by Eden Darry

  Lane thought about it. Except she didn’t really think about it because Lane had no idea. But the person she was right now, the body she was inhabiting, seemed to have a firm opinion. “We dock here. There’s plenty of resources in this land. We can make the repairs and be on our way. Plus, we lost some provisions in the storm. We could go hunting while the men fix the ship.”

  Thorvold nodded. “That’s what I think too.”

  “So what’s stopping you, then?” Lane asked.

  Thorvold nodded to where Sigmarsson sat in the middle of the knarr. “He wants to be on his way. He has furs and jewels and weapons to trade.”

  Lane shrugged. “But it’s not his boat, is it?”

  Thorvold laughed. “True, but it’s his money that bought the boat. And the supplies on board.”

  “And he thinks that gives him authority over you?”

  Thorvold’s face changed then, full of thunder. “No one has authority over me. I’m the son of a king. His father may be rich and powerful, but he’s a jarl and nothing more.”

  Lane nodded. “And we’re taking a risk by continuing to sail with this damage. He must understand that.”

  Thorvold sighed, and the thunder passed out of him as quickly as it came. “He understands nothing of sailing and boats. He only understands money and possessions and power. My father hates him, you know.”

  Lane understood this was dangerous territory. It was one thing to take Thorvold’s side out here on the ocean, but Ivar was his family, flesh and blood, and Lane knew getting involved in whatever dispute they had going was dangerous. “Well, he’s staying put when we dock, so at least we won’t have to take him back with us.”

  Thorvold nodded. “That’s true. I think he’s bad luck. The quicker he’s off my boat, the better.”

  Lane understood that she was dismissed now, so she made her way back down to the bow of the boat. On her way past, Ivar Sigmarsson grabbed her arm. “What did he say? Are we going on?”

  Lane pulled her arm free of his grasp. Her arm burned where he’d touched her, which was stupid because that shouldn’t be possible. “No, we’re docking. It’s the right thing to do,” she said.

  Sigmarsson nodded, and Lane could see his sly brain working. “Very well. Did you tell him he should do that?”

  “He already wanted to, and I agreed it was the best plan. And it is. It’s too dangerous to go on. What’s a few more days to you, anyway?” Lane asked.

  She was surprised when he grabbed her by the neck and pushed her against the mast.

  “I’ll lose my buyer and more money than you could ever hope to see in your miserable life, you little street rat,” he said. With his face close to hers, Lane could smell his rancid breath. Given all the months spent on this boat, she knew hers wouldn’t exactly be sweet, but there was something about this man that was rotten and fetid, and it was coming out of every pore.

  Lane pushed him away from her, and he stumbled backwards before tripping and landing on his arse. Not good. Not good at all. The men around her began to laugh.

  Lane stepped forward and offered her hand to help him to his feet. She hadn’t intended to knock him to the floor. She might lose her life for this. A person didn’t push over the nephew of a king.

  Sigmarsson pushed her hand away and got quickly to his feet. He was agile. “Get away from me,” he said. “You’ll pay for this, street rat.”

  Lane felt fear bubble up inside her. She didn’t want to die. Maybe Thorvold would take pity on her and leave her behind when they docked. That could be her punishment.

  “What’s going on here?” Thorvold asked. He must have heard the commotion.

  “This insubordinate little shit pushed me down,” Sigmarsson said.

  Thorvold looked at her. “Is that true?”

  “I pushed him away from me when he grabbed me. But yes, I did push him down,” she said.

  “Punish him. Throw him overboard,” Sigmarsson said.

  Lane’s stomach dropped. She’d seen it done before, and it wasn’t a nice way to go.

  “I think that’s a bit harsh,” Thorvold said. “Sounds like it was an accident. And you grabbed him first.”

  “I don’t believe this. I don’t. You’re taking his side, cousin?” Sigmarsson said.

  “I’m not taking anyone’s side.”

  “He has insulted you and the King by his actions, but you stand there and tell me you won’t punish him. I never knew you were such a weak man,” Sigmarsson said.

  “I’m not weak—”

  Before Thorvold could finish, Sigmarsson drew his seax and lunged at Lane. She stepped back and turned to the side to dodge him. He meant to kill her—that much was clear.

  “Ivar,” Thorvold said.

  “If you won’t defend our family’s honour, then I will.” Sigmarsson lunged at her again, and when Lane feinted left, he read it and slashed at her, catching her side and opening a wound that began to gush blood.

  Lane hissed at the pain. What should she do now? Fight him and risk killing him? That would certainly mean her death. Thorvold couldn’t allow her to live after that. Or she could keep dodging him, but he was fast and would likely end up killing her.

  Sigmarsson came at her again, and she jumped out of the way, narrowly avoiding his blade. A crowd had gathered to watch, and out of the corner of her eye, Lane saw Thorvold had stepped back. Which meant he was not going to interfere.

  “I meant you no disrespect,” she said to Sigmarsson.

  Sigmarsson slashed at her again and tore a hole in her shirt. “Fight me like a man,” he said. “Stop dodging.”

  Lane moved behind the mast. It would be difficult for him to slash at her that way. She had to think of a way to disarm him without hurting him. It was the only way to keep her life.

  “I don’t want to fight you, Sirl,” she said and moved to the left when he tried to come around the mast.

  “You should have thought about that, shouldn’t you,” he said.

  Lane stepped back again, avoiding the ropes curled on the deck. Maybe she could wear him out. Keep him talking and make him see sense.

  He stalked her, and she realized she would have no option but to fight him if she wanted to live.

  Lane—or Arn?—drew her blade. She tried to reason with him one last time. “Please, Sirl. Let’s not do this. It was an accident.”

  “Shut your mouth and fight me. After I kill you, I’ll find your family and kill them too. I’ll make your wife my slave, and I’ll cut your children’s throats in front of her,” Sigmarsson said.

  Lane came at him then. Her wife and children hadn’t been threatened—they were Arn’s—but she knew all the same that he wasn’t making an idle threat. Through Arn, Lane knew everything about Sigmarsson that she needed to know. He was rotten to the core. He would do all the things he said he would. And for what? An accident.

  Lane thrust the knife forward, and he sidestepped, then parried by lunging at her again. He missed.

  They circled each other, each looking for some weakness in the other. Lane knew she was a better fighter, but he was sneaky and quick. She made as if to lunge again, and when he sidestepped left, she went with him. Lane buried the knife in his chest.

  Sigmarsson dropped to his knees clutching the knife in his chest. He looked up at her in disbelief. “You stabbed me. I’ll get you for this.” Then he fell forward, flat onto his face, and was still.

  When Sigmarsson didn’t move, one of the other men approached him and knelt down. He turned him by his shoulder, and Lane heard the man’s sharp intake of breath.

  “Oh, dear. Arn, you killed him.”

  Lane felt sick. She couldn’t care less about Sigmarsson, but this surely meant she’d have to die. She’d killed the relative of a king. She’d had no choice but that wouldn’t matter.

  “Let me see,” Thorvold said.

  He flipped Sigmarsson onto his back with his foot. “You’re right. He’s definitely dead.”

  Thorvold bent down and pulled t
he knife out of his chest. He wiped the blade on Sigmarsson’s shoulder and passed it to Lane. “Here. It’s a good knife. Too good to stay in that idiot. But when we bury him, you must leave it there with him.”

  Lane took it, stunned. “But what about—”

  “Let’s say no more about it,” Thorvold said. And then, to the other men on the ship, “Did you hear that? We’ll say no more about it.”

  The other men nodded and started to wander off back to their chores.

  “When we dock, we’ll bury him with all his shit,” Thorvold said. “Don’t want the fucker coming back as a draugr, do we?”

  “What do you mean, a draugr?” Lane asked. Through Arn, she already knew most of it, but she wanted it said out loud.

  “Come on now, Arn. You know what a draugr is,” Thorvold said. “There’s no one in the world as vicious as Ivar. If anyone’s going to come back from the dead, it’s him. Best to make sure that doesn’t happen. We’ll bury him upside down too, so he can’t find his way back out of the grave.”

  “And with all his possessions because he’s greedy enough to come looking for them,” Lane added.

  “And the knife that killed him. It’s a shame to lose such a good one, but if he does come back, he won’t want to see that again,” Thorvold said.

  “And whoever finds it can use it to kill him again,” Lane said.

  “Yes. Are you all right?” Thorvold asked.

  “I think so. I think I am now,” she replied.

  Thorvold squeezed her shoulders. “There was nothing to be done. These men won’t talk. And I won’t be throwing you overboard or anything silly like that.”

  They docked in Provincetown several hours later. Lane helped the other men carry Sigmarsson off the boat. They walked for a long time with his dead weight on their shoulders before Thorvold was satisfied with the burial site.

  “We’ll leave him here. It’s far enough inland. Make sure you bury him deep,” Thorvold said.

  Lane helped dig the grave. They went down eight feet before Thorvold was happy. They placed him head first with his feet to the sky. Lane shovelled earth over him to cover him completely before they put the treasure box in.

  Thorvold had ordered meats and beer and clothing to go in with him. They also put in Sigmarsson’s jewellery—of which he had a lot—and her much loved knife.

  “There,” Thorvold said when the grave was completely filled in. “He’ll cause no more trouble. Let’s just hope no one ever digs him up. They’ll be in for a nasty surprise if that bugger ever comes back.”

  You have no idea, Lane thought but kept quiet. He would come back, she knew. And he’d wreak havoc. And Wendy would know all about it and not say a word.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lane stumbled and cried out as the world came back into focus. What the bloody hell had that all been about?

  She looked down at her hand and saw she was still holding the knife. It was glowing bright and felt hot in her hand.

  She looked up and saw the zombies had stopped in their tracks. Their low groans had a hint of confusion to them, and several looked back at Sigmarsson. They weren’t sure what to do, Lane realized. Something about this knife.

  Lane held the knife up above her head like she was some cut-price King Arthur and was astonished to see the zombies shrink back.

  “Come on,” she shouted, feeling more confident than she probably should. “Come on then if you want some.”

  The zombies started moving backwards. The groans became louder, and Lane swore they sounded scared. This knife was a talisman, something to do with that weird hallucination she’d just had. It was mad, but she didn’t care if it worked.

  Sigmarsson wasn’t looking too great either. He’d stepped back several paces. Something about this knife had unnerved him, and Lane had a feeling she knew what it was. He’d been killed by this knife all those years ago, and somehow it had power. Maybe the power to kill him all over again.

  Lane walked forward a few paces with the knife still held above her. “Don’t like it, do you?” she cried. “Not nice when the shoe’s on the other foot, is it?”

  Again, they shrunk away, and even better, so did Sigmarsson.

  Inside Lane, something snapped. All the fear and the sadness and the desperation she’d been feeling over the last twenty-four hours came to a head.

  Lane charged them. Screaming at the top of her lungs, she slashed at one zombie and almost took his head clean off. She spun and pushed the blade through the throat of another. Unlike with the hammer, which you had to aim at their heads, the knife seemed to kill them dead wherever she got them.

  Lane slashed and hacked her way through a sea of zombies, and not one of them bit her or came at her. Like the Red Sea, they parted. The knife terrified them. Just like they’d terrified her. The knife cut through them like butter and killed them on the spot, just like they’d killed Teensy.

  But the main target, the one she was working her way towards, the architect of all this destruction and death, would bear the brunt of her rage. All of this started and finished with him. Lane would put him down, and she didn’t care what happened to her. As long as he was dead. She’d managed it before—albeit accidentally—and she’d do it again.

  But when she got through the crowds of zombies, he’d gone. Lane looked around. He’d disappeared. It was impossible. He was nearly seven feet tall and not exactly easy to miss. Where the hell did he go?

  The zombies were also melting away, shuffling off down alleys and side streets. Lane stood in the middle of the road and wasn’t sure what to do next. He was gone. She had to find him and kill him. But how? Where would he go? Where did he go?

  And then she realized. Where he’d been buried. Lane racked her brain for that newspaper article she’d read on the plane a million years ago. Where had those workmen found the treasure?

  Winthrop Street. Lane vaguely remembered it from the other day, but Meg would know exactly where that was. If she was still alive. Please God, she was still alive. She had to be.

  Lane turned and started to walk back to the Governor. Then she saw her. Meg. Lane was equal parts elated and equal parts sick to her stomach. She was with Wendy. And Wendy had a gun to her head.

  * * *

  Meg cursed herself. How could she have been so stupid? When she heard the gunshot, she’d flown down the street. What she saw had stopped her dead in her tracks.

  Lane was standing in the middle of Commercial with some kind of knife in her hand, and it was on fire. It burned so bright, Meg had to shield her eyes. At first she’d been worried Lane would get hurt, but when she looked again, she saw that Lane wasn’t bothered by it at all.

  How was that possible?

  Meg didn’t have time to think about that because with a war cry Lane was charging into the zombies, and they were moving away from her. The knife scared them. And it scared Sigmarsson too. Meg let out a whoop.

  “Impressive, isn’t she?” Wendy said from behind her.

  Meg turned. Straight into the barrel of a gun. “What the fuck, Wendy? Where is everybody getting fucking guns from in fucking Massachusetts?”

  “You know, I found this in my father’s stuff when he died. I almost threw it in the ocean because I was so worried about having an unlicensed firearm. Glad I kept it now.” Wendy motioned with the gun. “Get back here with me and Lois. We’re going to wait this thing out.”

  And now Meg was standing in front of a car. Wendy had moved the gun so that it was now pressed into the small of her back. Wendy was using her in a hostage negotiation.

  “You can have your little girlfriend. Just give me the knife,” Wendy said to Lane. She pushed the bag over with her foot. “Put it in there.”

  Meg locked eyes with Lane and shook her head. There was no way Lane should exchange her for the knife. That knife was going to save Lane and Lois.

  “Stay out of it, Meg,” Wendy said and pushed the gun more firmly into Meg’s back.

  “I will not stay out of it. Wend
y, think about it. We could kill Sigmarsson with that knife. Take the rest of the treasure if you want it, but leave Lane the knife.”

  “Meg has a point. Why—” Lane was cut off.

  “Shut up, shut up, shut up. Both of you, shut up. Lane, you’ve got five seconds to make up your mind. Either give me the knife, or I shoot your little girlfriend,” Wendy said.

  Meg looked at Lane again and tried to convey how much she didn’t want Lane to hand it over.

  “How do I know you won’t shoot her anyway?” Lane asked.

  Wendy shrugged. “I guess you don’t. You’ll have to do it on trust.”

  “Trust? You’ve proven throughout this whole thing that the last thing you are is trustworthy, Wendy.”

  “You have a point. Look, I need the knife to get out of here with the treasure. It obviously keeps those things away. I also don’t want to use any more bullets than I need to,” Wendy said. “I’d rather save them for the zombies.”

  It made sense, Meg thought. “And what will you do when you get to Boston or wherever it is you’re going? You don’t think anyone’s going to ask where you got that treasure from? You don’t think they’ll make you hand it in?”

  “I thought about that. I’ve met a few collectors in my time, and they know other collectors. I don’t imagine I’ll have much trouble selling it,” Wendy said.

  “But I thought the whole reason you took it was because you believe it belongs in Provincetown?” Lane said.

  “It does. But look around, not much of Provincetown left. I can’t imagine it’ll be long before the military bomb this place off the map. I’ve worked my whole life in this town. I know people laughed at me. Oh look, it’s Wendy and her stupid little library exhibitions again. Well, now they’re dead—or zombies—so who’s laughing? I deserve to retire in style. And this stuff is worth a lot of money.”

  “You never cared about whether it stayed here or not,” Meg said.

  “Yes, I did. But plans change. Now, we’ve talked long enough. Put the knife in the bag, Lane, or I will shoot Meg. You know I will.”