Serial Killer Z [Book 1]

by Philip Harris

My thoughts turned to the workshop. In my head, it was perfect for my purposes. Near enough to the camp that I could move between the two quickly, but not so close that you’d see it from the lodge. The two benches were solid and stable. Once I’d made a few modifications, it would be an ideal place for me to work. And the tools? They’d open up new possibilities, vistas I’d never dreamed of in my closeted existence in the city. I could sense the shadow’s excitement.

  It was perfect. Too perfect.

  My subconscious gnawed at me. There had to be something wrong with it. The location was more exposed than I’d imagined, or the cabin had been less secure. I hadn’t noticed a road that ran nearby, or that it was on a direct path to the ranger station. Maybe someone was even living there and I’d been too blind to notice the signs. My fears wore me down, made me tired and irritable. I needed to go back to the workshop and check, to prepare things. Then I could relax and make my plans.

  I dug through my backpack, removing the random assortment of tape, tools, and books that had gotten me through the weeks since I’d left the city. I filled up a couple of water bottles and added them to the pack, begrudgingly including some jerky.

  After some internal debate, I decided to leave the rifle behind. Not that I was afraid of killing, of course. But a rifle was too distant, too impersonal for my liking, and my lack of skill would provide ample opportunity for attackers to disarm me before I got a shot off. I decided to stick with the machete.

  Finally, I picked up the battered rectangular leather case that held my most prized possessions. An oval metal plate was mounted on the lid, and I stroked it, idly. In some ways, I was loath to take it with me.

  I had visions of my pack tearing on a stray branch and the case falling out without my realizing or any number of other nightmarish scenarios. But leaving it behind was worse. What if someone came to the camp? I still hadn’t accounted for all the inhabitants, and there was no telling who else was wandering the forest. And that was ignoring the ever-present threat of the military or other survivors. An inquisitive pilot might notice signs of my presence and come to investigate.

  No, I’d take the case with me.

  I slipped it into the backpack, pushing it right down to the bottom so that I wasn’t likely to pull it out accidentally. I put away the rest of the supplies, checked the case was still safe inside the backpack, then headed out.

  The journey to the workshop was uneventful, but it took longer than I remembered. The trail seemed to stretch out endlessly in front of me. Several times I became concerned that I’d strayed off the path and missed the workshop, dooming me to hours of fruitless wandering until I passed out from hunger or was found by the dozens of zombies that must surely be nearby. My concerns eased when I reached the ditch I’d fallen in and saw the body still lying there, the hole where my knife had penetrated its skull clearly visible.

  I grew more and more nervous as I approached the workshop. All manner of disastrous scenarios played out in my head—everything from a swarm of zombies surrounding the cabin to it having been burned down by a roving post-apocalyptic gang. No matter what I said to myself, I couldn’t shake the feeling that my plan was going to unravel around me before it even started.

  In the end, I needn’t have worried. The workshop was largely how I remembered it. It was perhaps a little smaller, and not every tool I thought I’d seen was actually there, but there were no signs of visitors beyond the trail of dusty footprints I’d left behind myself.

  I set my pack on the floor, pulled out a bottle of water, and took a few sips as I walked around the workshop, mentally noting the various tools on the walls. It was doubtful that I’d use most of them. They were too crude and imprecise for my purposes, but I’d need some basics to make my improvements to the workbenches.

  Searching through the drawers, I found some U-shaped brackets. I removed six, picked out some screws that would fit them, along with a box of heavy-duty bolts, a hand-operated drill, and a screwdriver. I placed everything on the larger of the two workbenches and then dug around in the plastic boxes and found three lengths of chain.

  An hour later, I’d fitted the chains to the table. One end of each of them was securely bolted to the side of the workbench. The other end was loose but could be fastened to the opposite side of the bench by running it through the brackets and pulling it tight. I’d use three more bolts to lock the chains in position.

  I pulled on each chain in turn, getting my full weight behind them in an effort to dislodge them. They seemed solid enough. I tried to move the workbenches again, but they didn’t budge.

  After another walk around the workshop, I was convinced everything seemed secure. I wasn’t completely happy with the number of tools—and therefore the number of makeshift weapons—but I doubted my subjects were going to be in any shape to use them. I did clear a space around both of the workbenches, making sure anything that could be used as a weapon was out of reach.

  Finally, I pulled the leather case out of my backpack. I tapped my fingers against the lid as I debated what to do with it. If I left it in the workshop, it would be close at hand, and probably safer than at the camp, but there were fewer places to hide it. If someone did find the workshop and chose to search it, they were bound to find the case.

  I bounced back and forth for several minutes. In the end, I found the deepest, fullest drawer and put the case at the back of it. I pushed the drawer’s contents around and added piles of loose screws and bits of wire until it was packed full of junk. Nerves twisted my stomach as I closed the drawer again.

  It took four circuits of the room before I was satisfied I had a clear picture of the workshop and that my subconscious wouldn’t be able to taunt me with misremembered details.

  I tightened the bolts holding the chains in place and gave them one last pull, then I went outside. I walked slowly around the cabin, trying to imprint the building and its surroundings on my memory. A generator sat against one wall. It was similar to the one at the lodge but smaller. If the fuel gauge was accurate, there was about a third of a tank of gas left.

  The workshop doors weren’t fitted with locks, and I added a padlock to the list of supplies I needed. I picked up a couple of thin twigs and propped them against each door. At least then I’d have some indication as to whether I’d had visitors while I was away.

  As sure as I could be that the workshop was secure, I headed back to the lodge. It was early, but I needed to get some rest. My arms and legs ached, and I had a big day coming up.

  Chapter 11

  Hunting Trip

  I set out early the next morning, heading west along the wider road out of the camp. I had my backpack with me, stocked with enough food and water for a full day’s hiking, although I hoped I wouldn’t need it all. I took the climbing rope with me as well. The end was tied into a lasso big enough to fit around a human. I also had the machete, just in case things didn’t go according to plan.

  The track wound through the forest, rising and falling for a mile or so before joining a bigger logging road. I went south toward more populated areas, figuring that gave me a better chance of finding what I was looking for—a zombie.

  The forest was warm and muggy, and the sky was filled with low clouds that promised rain. I was wearing two coats—a thick leather jacket belonging to either Arlo Chan or his roommate and my own hunting jacket over the top. They were heavy and far too hot in the oppressive atmosphere, but I figured they’d give me at least some degree of protection from teeth.

  I trudged along, slowly cooking in my own sweat. Another trail joined the logging road. The trail was wide enough for a single vehicle, and by the look of the ruts in the ground it was well used. On a whim, I turned onto it, still heading south.

  Within a few minutes, I spotted a logging camp up ahead. I slowed and moved to the edge of the trail. The camp was small with just a single tent, a generator, and a couple of sawhorses. I ducked into the trees. I’d found a zombie.

  The man was shirtless. In life, he
would have been solidly built—muscular and strong. In death, the muscles beneath the zombie’s skin had begun to decay, giving it an oddly soft shape. A split cut across its back. The gash’s edges were green and weeping. It was standing in the middle of the camp, barely moving.

  I unhooked the rope from my belt and crouched in the trees for a while, watching the zombie. If it sensed me, it didn’t respond. As the seconds passed, the shadow rose within me, and my excitement rose with it. A smile formed on my lips, almost involuntarily. The shadow quickly grew more confident as it realized I was letting it out to play. I could feel the rope in my hands, warm and eager to be put to good use. I had to force myself not to move too hastily, not to get overexcited.

  Eventually, the shadow’s insistent whispers became too much to ignore. Without taking my eyes off the zombie, I slipped my backpack off and quietly placed it on the ground. When the zombie didn’t respond, I coiled up the rope and walked slowly out of the trees. A quiet calm descended over me.

  I got as close as I dared before stopping and uncoiling the rope. There was a moment of doubt, a brief flash of concern as I realized I should have practiced with the lasso. Now that I was actually here, it seemed foolish to think I could just go and rope myself a zombie like some post-apocalyptic Clint Eastwood.

  I let the concerns drift over me. I wasn’t on a horse; my target wasn’t a galloping stallion. The loop I’d made for the lasso was big, and the zombie wasn’t even moving. This was more like tossing a hoop over a bottle at a funfair but without the game being fixed. I was only about ten feet away from the zombie, and it was still in a near-catatonic state. At this rate, I could just walk up to it and drop the rope over its head.

  The wind rustled through the trees, and I glanced up at the sky. The clouds were still thick, gray, and threatening rain. I needed to hurry up.

  I shook the lasso four times to work out the kinks then took the end of the rope in my left hand, the loop in my right. I had no intention of whirling it around my head or trying any other theatrics. Instead, I just flicked the rope forward and released the loop. It sailed through the air and flopped over the zombie’s head. One side of the lasso caught on the thing’s shoulder for a moment, but then it came loose. It fell to the zombie’s waist, trapping its arms. I pulled, and it felt as though I’d wrapped the rope around a tree and was now trying to drag it away. I tugged again, tightening the rope as far as it would go.

  Finally, the zombie moved.

  Its head whipped around. Its black, soulless eyes fixed on me. I tightened my grip on the rope. The zombie’s mouth opened, revealing bloodstained teeth. It let out a loud, gravelly roar and then sprinted toward me.

  I let go of the rope, turned, and ran.

  I’d barely taken four steps when another zombie loomed up out of the forest to my right. This one was wearing a shirt, but if anything the clothing just made it look bigger and more dangerous. Its right hand was mangled, a crushed and bloodied stump. The creature moaned as it broke through the bushes.

  I dodged left. My feet skidded on the soft earth. I stumbled forward. My hands hit the ground, and I barely managed to keep myself upright as my momentum tried to send me sprawling.

  Something moaned behind me. The sound was so close I could almost feel the zombie’s rancid breath on my neck. Adrenaline surged through me.

  As I reached the edge of the camp, a third zombie appeared out of the undergrowth. This one was a woman. It was much shorter than me, close to five feet tall, and with a thin, wiry physique. Whereas the two men had been largely intact, the woman’s throat had been partially torn out, and there were long slashes down its face. There were shotgun wounds in its left shoulder and chest, and a knife protruded from its right thigh.

  It staggered across the trail, the injuries making its movements uneven. Instinctively, I slowed to avoid running into it. Something big and heavy hit me from behind. For an instant, I thought I’d been run over by a truck or maybe a low-flying aircraft. I was flung forward, toward the woman.

  I tried to tuck and roll, but my legs got tangled up in each other. I went sprawling across the ground. The impact sent a jarring pain up my arm and into my shoulder. I rolled in what I hoped was the opposite direction to the zombies and then flipped onto my back.

  The first zombie had run into me. The fact that its arms were still trapped at its side by the lasso had probably saved my life. If it had been able to grab me, it would have sunk its teeth into my neck before I could react. It lunged toward me, mouth open and dripping a viscous black fluid. I reached for my machete, spending a few heart-stopping seconds searching for it before my fingers wrapped around the hilt.

  The zombie fell on top of me. The impact cracked my head against the hard ground and knocked the wind from my lungs. Blackness seeped around the edges of my vision. The zombie reared up in front of me, its gray skin stretched taut across the sharp bones of its skull. I lifted my arm as it attacked, and its jaw fastened around my forearm. Its teeth felt like razor blades, and I screamed as it chewed at my arm. I swung the machete in one last, desperate attempt at survival.

  I felt the blade sink into flesh and connect with bone. I’d hit the creature’s neck. It wasn’t enough to kill it, but it loosened its grip on my arm. I pushed the machete away from me, trying to force the zombie backward. It was too heavy and barely moved. I struggled sideways and managed to partly free myself. My legs were still pinned beneath the creature, but my upper body was free. It snarled and spat as I yanked the machete from its throat and attacked again.

  This time, my aim was better. I jammed the machete up through its jaw. Black fluid burst from the wound, soaking my hands and splattering my face. A putrid stench washed over me, and I found myself fighting for air. It let out a strangled, wordless cry then collapsed. Dead again.

  My arm was covered in blood, but it was thick and black and belonged to the zombie I’d just killed. The jackets had protected me. I muttered a quiet prayer of thanks that I’d put up with the heat rather than discarding the extra layers.

  I dragged myself from beneath the corpse and pushed myself upright onto wavering legs just in time to face the second zombie. It charged toward me. These zombies were moving so much faster than the others I’d encountered. I held the machete out in front of me, at about head height.

  The zombie ran straight into it.

  The blade’s point sank into its eye. The impact knocked me backward. What little sense I had left made me let go of the machete and throw myself sideways, out of its path. It barreled past me and continued for five or six steps before collapsing to the ground. The fall drove the machete deeper until its silver tip protruded from the back of the zombie’s skull. I grabbed the machete’s handle and pulled, but it was wedged tight.

  The female zombie was slower than the men, perhaps because of the extent of its injuries, but I could see it bearing down on me as I struggled to free the machete. I didn’t have long. Reluctant to lose my weapon, I tried to twist it free. It held firm, and with the female zombie almost on top of me, I gave up.

  Cursing at my stupidity, I ran down the trail, away from the logging camp.

  Chapter 12

  Regrets

  I sat at the table in the lodge’s kitchen with my head in my hands. Partly it was out of despair, partly to stop them shaking. I was an idiot. I’d been unprepared, careless. I was lucky to get away alive. My hunting jacket was lying on the ground outside the lodge where I’d thrown it in frustration. Despite the protection of the leather jacket, my forearm was bruised and sore. It was a wonder the zombie hadn’t managed to break any bones. To add insult to injury, I’d left the rope, my backpack, and the machete behind. And there was no way I was going back to get them.

  Panic hit me—my case. I thought I remembered putting it in the drawer in the workshop, but had I dreamed that? Was the case still in the pack, out in the forest? I clenched the table and closed my eyes.

  No, I could see the drawer and the junk I’d used to hide the case. It was
safe. I ignored the voice whispering in my ear insisting that someone had broken into the workshop.

  I took four deep breaths and focused on what to do next. Part of me was convinced I should give up and concentrate on surviving, not indulging the shadow’s desires. No matter how keenly I felt its influence, if I let it control my decisions, it would be my downfall.

  But another part of me was convinced I couldn’t let an opportunity like this slip through my fingers. I don’t believe in a deity, benevolent or otherwise, but if I did, my discovery of the camp and the workshop could be interpreted as a sign that I had waited long enough. It was time to unleash the shadow again.

  Yes, I’d been careless, and yes, I hadn’t prepared, but I had survived. It seemed not all zombies were created equal. These, the two men at least, had been quicker and stronger than any I’d seen. But I’d gone up against them and gotten away with my life.

  I wasn’t willing to abandon my plan. Overall, it was a good one. It was my execution that had been lacking. With the benefit of hindsight, I could see exactly where I’d gone wrong. I’d let my excitement and the influence of the shadow overwhelm my judgment. It wouldn’t happen again.

  The rope had also been a bad idea. I’d envisaged myself pulling the zombie along behind me as I traveled through the forest, treating it like some sort of oversize dog. My pace would prevent it from attacking me. If it did stray too close, a tug on the rope would knock it off balance and enable me to keep out of the way. At least, that had been the idea.

  Clearly, that wouldn’t be good enough. I had some rope left, but I needed something that would let me hold the zombie at a safe distance while we made our way through the forest.

  I must have spent at least an hour sitting at the kitchen table, considering and discarding ever more ludicrous ideas before I saw the broom leaning up against the wall. The pieces clicked into place. I grabbed the broom, kicked off the head, and brought it over to the table. I measured the rope against the width of the broom handle, and a smile spread over my face. I could drill a couple holes in the handle, feed the rope through it, and create a noose. It would act like a sort of zombie snare. Once I’d gotten it around a zombie’s neck, I’d be able to control its movements using the broom handle.