Blood and Chaos: The Collected Low Lying Lands Saga (The Low Lying Lands Saga)

by Bob Williams

  “Speak up, dipshit.”

  “Message for you ... message for you.”

  I am learning the longer I survive in this world that there seems to be varying degrees of breaks. This Freak has all the signs of a break, but he is weak. Or maybe out of gas? Not sure, but I can’t recall seeing a Freak in the fetal position before.

  I draw my other Glock from the holster and level it down on the Freak in question. “No, thanks. Not interested. But tell you what. Why don’t you take a quick trip down to Hell and wait for your pal Shen. He’ll be along soon enough.”

  The Freak jolts upright to a standing position faster than I can put two and two together. He screams, “MESSAGE F—”

  I shoot his fucking face out the back of his head. “Yep. That’s what your ass looks like. I’m not impressed.”

  I figure whatever might be hiding will soon appear, so I hurry to the get behind the counter for protection, but also to find my other Glock.

  Pop! Pop! ... Pop! ... Pop! ... Pop!

  Gunfire erupts from somewhere behind me. Outside! I start kicking around in the ankle-deep sea of cigarette packs and cartons, quickly scanning with the flashlight for my other gun. After three sweeps with my feet I feel the hard steel hit my foot.

  I bend down to pick it up just as the lights buzz and groan, then flicker to life. The not-so-sudden wash of light in the five- or six-hundred-square-foot store blinds me momentarily and I drop to the floor to regroup.

  “PRESCOTT!” My god, it’s a deafening scream. “PRESCOTT!”

  I pop up from behind the counter with both Glocks live and ready to breathe fire.

  “Okay! Shit! I heard you the first time. What’s up, Crusty?” This Freak is just another in a long line of disgusting human beings that were the first to be converted. Honestly, I’m shocked nowadays if a Freak has all its teeth. This one does.

  He is doing a fine job of riding his rage wave and looking to direct it toward me. He’s a good six feet plus, and I’d say two hundred and fifty pounds. His shirt, which at some point had been a tank top, hangs off of him in tatters. His pants have split in numerous places and are thankfully held up by his belt, which is being given a demanding task of its own not to disintegrate.

  He stands right in the middle of the store. I count ten more Freaks filing out of what I can only assume is the break room, or I don’t know, maybe an office or a small storage room.

  Oh my fucking god! Oh … my …

  I blink five or six times and hope upon hope that what I see will disappear. It doesn’t. Goddamnit. I ... Malcolm?

  With the lights on, I am finally able to see what’s caused such a foul odor to escape this fucking hellhole. Heads.

  When Schlagheck’s Gas ‘N’ Go had been the hotbed of commerce I’m sure it was, pre-Descent, this little pit stop store’s shelves would have been filled with chips, candy, candy bars, crackers, beef jerky, car care supplies, hats, shirts, magazines, beer, and whatever little trinkets and shit you could ever not want but always seemed to buy.

  Now every shelf in the fucking store is lined with heads. Fucking heads. Two hundred or more of them in varying stages of decomposition. The beer coolers have been divided for your Freakish pleasure, as each individual cooler displays one different body part.

  One for heads. One for arms. Legs. Feet. There are even a few shelves of crudely made bottles of blood. Like they poured out the Coca-Cola and filled them with the blood of their victims. I am getting so fucking tired of the most horrific thing I’ve ever seen being topped on as consistent a cycle as the sun’s rise and set.

  I stifle my gag reflex for the hundredth time in the last couple of days and regain my composure. My heart is screaming for these folks, one of which I imagine is Schlagheck himself.

  “MESSAGE FOR YOU! MESSAGE FOR YOU!”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, can you stop with the yelling,” I say.

  “You’ll have to forgive him, Mr. Prescott.” A new player.

  Like hell I will. “Don’t call me that.”

  “Yes, of course. I knew that. Apologies. It’s a bit … intense in here, wouldn’t you say?”

  This Freak seems to have materialized out of thin air to begin this conversation. He is, oddly for a Freak, sharply dressed. Not a three-piece suit or anything, but designer jeans, button-down shirt, boots, and a vest. He has yet to break, but he is most assuredly a Freak. He kind of resembles Robert Downey Jr.

  “Fuck you.”

  “Articulate. Are you ready to hear the message?”

  “Nah. I don’t hear so well. I’m thinking about Butch-and-Sundancing this motherfucker and taking as many of you assholes with me as possible.”

  “Perhaps a little incentive, then,” he says. He looks into me rather than at me and cocks his head slightly before snapping his fingers.

  One more Freak emerges from the back area. He has Shields in tow. She’s bleeding from her left ear and looks a little worse for wear, but she looks okay.

  “Laura! Are you all right? Are you bitten?” I ask. I can think she’s good all I want, but I need to know.

  She locks eyes with me. “I’m fine. Be smart here.”

  “MESSAGE FOR YOU!” bellows the screamer.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” says Shields.

  “I already said that. What’s your backup?”

  “I’m right here, ya jerk! And he’s right there.” She points at me. “Nobody needs to be screaming at anyone.”

  “Okay,” I say. “You know this isn’t daycare, right? You could’ve done a lot better.”

  “Will both of you shut the fuck up!” says RDJ.

  “I appreciate your lowering your voice. My ears were starting to ring. I loved you in True Believer, by the way. Very underrated film.”

  “What?”

  “Shields? Do they know about—”

  “Shut the fuck up, Prescott. I said be smart. Remember?”

  “Would you be talking about Michael Cole? Yes, where is Mr. Cole? We were expecting him as part of your … entourage.”

  “Dead,” I say. “He choked on a dick back in Indiana. Dangers of the lifestyle, I suppose.”

  “No, this is not the truth. I would know if he was dead.”

  “Maybe your data entry intern sucks at the job.”

  He turns back to his cronies and says, “Two of you go! Find this man Cole and bring him here. Now!”

  “I’m telling you, he’s long since had worms up his ass, man.”

  “THIS message for you, Prescott, comes from Admiral Shen himself. He knows all about you. He doesn’t fear you. In fact, he welcomes the challenge you clearly believe you and your pathetic ragtag group of friends represent.”

  “I don’t think he’s going to like my personal greeting when we get there.”

  “His message is for you alone. Defeat our champion and you will have unobstructed travel through to Columbus. The roads have already been cleared. This is how it will go, Regular. If you defeat our champion, you may take all of our lives. If our champion defeats you, we will take your life and your friends will be infected and made to serve the Admiral.”

  “Well, that’s not gonna happen, jackhole.”

  “I suppose we will see, won’t we, Mr. Prescott?”

  “Don’t call him that,” says Shields.

  “Shut your mouth, bitch!” Turning, he says, “Make a circle. Once the two enter the circle, it will not be broken until a champion is deemed victorious.”

  “And how is one deemed victorious?” I ask.

  “A most unintelligent question, Prescott. But one I will answer. One is deemed victorious when the opponent is dead, of course!”

  “You should’ve seen that coming, Prescott,” says Shields.

  I nod. “Thank you, peanut gallery.”

  The group of Freaks break up and form a circle. Several of the heads fall off the shelves onto the floor as some of the units have to be moved to make a fighting space.

  I take my holster off and set it on the ground, out of
the way. I leave my tie on, remembering it helped against Kade. I then cautiously roll up my sleeves, which gives me a few precious moments to survey the scene.

  How much honor do Freaks have? Hard to say. I see that, yes, once I am in the circle I am not getting out until this brawl is over. I scan the entirety of the glass front and see no sign of Cole. No Malcolm. And in here, no Shields for back up. This is all me.

  Shit.

  I step through the Freak parade and into the circle that is already inhabited by Crusty, their champion. I motion to loosen my tie a tad more when Crusty takes a run at me, throwing a massive haymaker in my direction. I easily dodge and a thought occurs to me. If that’s what he’s bringing to the table, I got this.

  After flying past me by four steps or so, he stops and turns around. “Dead. Meat!” he booms.

  I put up my hands and approach Crusty. “Woah! Ha ha! Yo, you move pretty good for a big guy.” Do I sound like Rocky? I think I do. “Tell you what. Let’s give the folks here a good show. Why don’t we move around the circle here. I hit you, you hit me, everybody goes home happy.”

  “Drink … BRAINS!”

  “Well, except for the part where I fucking kill you.” I launch a front kick that lands square in the solar plexus, dropping him to the ground. I follow up with a solid knee to the crown of his head. That alone may have killed a regular.

  I reload and am about to drive another knee down Broadway when he shoots to his feet. The whites of his eyes were gone, man. Replaced by pure … red … blood. He is in a full-on break. Bloody sweat flows out of every pore imaginable. It’s like he pushes Carrie out of the way and takes the full blood bath.

  His neck and torso are expanding. His legs, waist, and stomach extended outward. The belt, the saving grace, gives way and drops at his feet.

  Freak junk. Sonofabitch!

  A sound eerily similar to an old-school tea kettle starting to whistle comes from his mouth and it escalates to yet another high-pitched scream. I cover my ears, but that isn’t nearly enough to actually help. I jerk forward and start to feel disoriented. I’m going down if he doesn’t stop this shit soon.

  He stops screeching and starts charging. I still have bats in the belfry, but I’m aware enough to know whatever he does is going to hurt. He kindly returns the knee I give him with a massive shot to my left arm, which almost immediately goes numb.

  “Dammit, Crusty! That fucking hurt!”

  “Eat ... BLOOD!”

  Crusty drops two gigantic closed fists my way and they both land wonderfully well between my shoulder blades. Goddammit! A little backup, you shitbag, Malcolm!

  Crusty has me. Confidence can often disappear on a dime. Lying facedown on the composite tile of this piece-of-shit gas station, I know I’m going to die.

  However, fate steps in sometimes. Maybe there is something to this Point of Light stuff. Crusty bends over and grabs me by my hair and pulls me up off the ground. He then takes two handfuls of my shirt and jerks me up to a standing position, where I promptly give him a headbutt, which shatters his fucking nose. I then get the Freak-blood money shot all over my face and clothes. I am thankful every day that the essence of Chaos is not spread by fluid. It’s a bite or nothing.

  I land a solid right cross, but there is no way my left arm is going to move with a follow-up. I attempt a leg kick but Crusty is back in form and flicks it away. He follows that with a hard strike to my sternum. Luckily I hear nothing crack. Next, a left hook that I duck and follow up with an uppercut, and—NO! My left arm is dead. I’m getting gassed.

  I step back and start to circle. Crusty doesn’t seem to have the fatigue issue. “All right, asshole,” I say. “Let’s finish this. I have to be somewhere. Anywhere. Not here!”

  I step in, bob left, and throw a tight right hook to his face. He replies with a shot to my stomach, but I keep throwing. I throw my left shoulder in his direction and that gives me the second I needed to bring another right jab, which shoves his Adam’s apple firmly into the rear of his neck.

  Crusty bends and brings his hands up to his neck as he gasps for air. I take this opportunity to launch my steel-toe boot right into his fucking knee. Said knee is heard smashing into tiny little bits, and Crusty goes down.

  Still flying with rage and adrenaline, I give him another crushing knee shot to his ear and blood sprays like a popped water balloon. He rocks violently over onto his back, whereupon I kneel over him and rain down elbow after elbow after elbow until his eye sockets are hollow and his fucking nose is flush with his fuckin’ drink brains Ragù face.

  I stand slowly and feel right away how every part of my body is starting to ache. I step over his body and search for Robert Downey Jr.

  “There ... you ... are, shit for brains. I’m ... pretty damn tired ... of you ... assholes putting me ... in these types of ... situations where my good ties are ... getting fucked up.” I can hardly breathe, so I speak between gasps. “Are you listening ... to me?”

  “Indeed. I am.”

  “Shields, little help?” She walks over, and I point to the tie around my neck. She carefully unties it and places it in my hand.

  “Thank you.” I take the tie and walk back over to Crusty. I stuff the tie into his blood-filled, gurgling mouth. He is trying to breathe through his completely trashed nasal cavity, but he will drown in his own blood first.

  “Prescott!” I hear the door open and turn to see Cole with Lexi in tow. “Don’t you fucking do it. I know what you’re thinking. You’ve won, man.” I see him hold up his Beretta. “Here.”

  He walks closer and tosses it to me. I catch it, point it, and fire a round into Crusty’s forehead, heart, and dick for good measure.

  “Okay, that’s done. So do you guys kill each other, or do we?”

  “We shall gladly lay our life down for our master. Admiral Shen will bring a calm to the storm that is Low Lying Lands.” He turns to his associates. “Our time has come. We have served Admiral Shen to the greatest of our abilities. For this brief time, we saw a light when there was darkness. We—”

  Shields takes his head clean off with her katana. “Enough of this crap already. Answer the question. You guys going to kill each other, or do you need some help?”

  In the seconds I stand there slack-jawed by Shields’s action, the remaining Freaks draw their respective weapons and answer the million-dollar question.

  “Shields, I’m not gonna lie. I have an erection right now.”

  “Congratulations.” She crossed the store, passes Cole and Lexi, and heads out the door into the darkness. Maybe the darkness is starting to creep into her? I know what she’s been through, but she’s supposed to be the rational thinker of the group. I look to Cole.

  “Where were you?”

  “I went after Shields, but they already had her, so I continued around the perimeter and came back around to the front. Lexi and I were about to bust in, but I heard it all unfold, so I just watched the fight. Not bad. He was KO, man. You didn’t need to stomp his face in.”

  “God, I wanted to, though.”

  “I know. I saw it in you.” He changes the subject. “Shields went a little sideways there, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, I noticed. Let’s keep an eye on that.” My brain tells my arms to reach for one of the gondola shelf units, but my left is still dead. Cole reaches down and helps pull me to my feet.

  “Popke, show me the arm?” says Cole.

  “I can’t. Trust me; there’s a bruise. And then later there will be a worse bruise.”

  “Okay. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “No. Not yet. We need to get as much gas as we can and then we need to send these poor souls on their way.”

  Two hours later we have dragged all the Freaks to the center of Schlagheck’s Gas ‘N’ Go along with every single one of the vastly compositionally varied heads, torsos, arms, and feet. We douse them with enough gasoline to challenge Hell, then gather quickly to say our respects.

  “Mr. Schlagheck, I w
ouldn’t wish this fate on my worst enemy. I hope this completes the process and you are able to make your way to peace. Cole? Shields?”

  “Let’s fucking go, Prescott,” says Cole.

  “Farewell. Say hello to my family when you get there,” says Shields.

  We exit the gas station and walk to the Comanche. Shields gets in behind the wheel and Cole takes the front passenger seat. I open the gas can and pour the fluid from the door of the store to the truck. I open the rear passenger door and get in, leaving it open.

  “Drive a hundred yards or so,” I say. “Not too fast.”

  We proceed forward to an acceptable distance while I continue to pour. “Okay. This Shen fucker is going down. No more stops till Columbus.”

  I flick the Ohio State Buckeye Zippo I took from the inside and drop it to the ground. Ironically, I suppose, Huey Lewis and the News’s “Power of Love” emerges from the speakers as one of the single largest explosions I’ve ever seen erupts behind us.

  FIRST STRIKE

  Admiral Shen stood upon the flat roof of the Seventh Son Brewery. Rebecca approached him cautiously from behind and stood next to him.

  “What are you doing up here, Master?”

  “You are becoming rather brave, Rebecca.”

  “I only wish to know so I can better serve you, Master. To protect you.”

  Shen laughed. A subtle, unamused laugh. “There is nothing you can do, Rebecca, to protect me. Everything I do is to protect you. Us. We have much work to left to do if we are to accomplish the mission.”

  “But, Master, you have the dagger. What more do you require? No one could possibly stop us now.”

  “No, they cannot. But some will try. I sense this man Prescott has defeated our champion, the apparently unqualified Mr. Brown. He is headed toward a collision with us. He believes he will destroy me. He believes he is protected. He is wrong. Another lie told by my former colleague.”

  “So if I were to have been keeping score, this unprotected Regular, Prescott, has made his way through a mansion full of Freaks and also a gas station full of Freaks. Would you say that maybe it’s about time you took him seriously?”