Zombies Attack!

by Mark Cheverton

  The zombie ran along the path, fleeing from the NPC warriors that had attacked his comrades. Er-Lan was still terrified by the ferocity of the small group of villagers. It had been only a single warrior and three children, but they fought as if they were twice their number. The memory replayed itself in the zombie’s mind: the smaller villager with the two knives had moved so quickly, it had been impossible to predict where he would go next; the girl with the enchanted sword seemed timid, but attacked with complete savageness; the large warrior with his diamond sword had overpowered many of his comrade; and lastly, the archer on the rooftop had shot at the zombies with pinpoint accuracy.

  These were a lethal combination of martial skills; likely they’d trained together for years. Er-Lan knew instantly that the zombies didn’t stand a chance. Reporting the presence of these warriors to the zombie warlord was more important than standing his ground and being destroyed. Besides, Er-Lan was not a fighter. He knew the other zombies joked about him behind his back, but he had no illusions about his skill as a warrior. Er-Lan was smaller and weaker than nearly every other zombie. Even some of the children were better warriors than him … it was a fact he’d come to accept.

  This time, he would do something that was important to the zombie people: he’d report the presence of these great NPC warriors and finally receive the recognition he deserved.

  “I must tell the warlord … I must tell Tu-Kar,” the zombie grumbled to himself.

  Running as fast as he could, Er-Lan left the stone path and headed through the woods. He knew the grassy trail that cut through the forest would take a wide, sweeping turn. Heading straight through the forest would shorten his trek by hours. As he ran, the zombie felt the tug of something in the distance. It was like a soft voice, whispering sweet thoughts into his mind, thoughts he could not ignore: set up camp, make sure the church is secure, feed the prisoners … Er-Lan felt compelled to carry out the commands, though he was still far from the army.

  “This zombie must hurry, must get to the church and help,” Er-Lan mumbled to himself as the magical enchantments spurred him to run faster.

  Finally, the zombie reached the old, dilapidated church as the square face of the sun was nearing the western horizon. He emerged from the forest, surprising a group of zombie guards.

  “Who is that?” asked one of the sentries.

  “It is Er-Lan with important news for the zombie warlord.” He was out of breath. Stopping for a moment, the zombie leaned over and puffed heavily.

  “The zombie warlord is in the church tower,” one of the guards said. “Go quickly before all the doorways are sealed.”

  “Sealed?” Er-Lan was confused.

  “The zombie warlord wants to make sure no other monsters get in or out through the night,” the sentry replied.

  Er-Lan sighed. He wanted to rest, but knew reporting to the zombie warlord was more important. With a moan, he shuffled toward the entrance of the church. As he approached it, he stared up at its soaring heights. Two huge stone towers stood on either side of the entrance, the steeples reaching up almost to the clouds. A gigantic clock face stood over the main entrance, but no one could really remember when it actually had worked. The back of the structure was covered by a wooden roof, the sides of the church by large, stained-glass windows. Along one side, small slabs of stone stuck out from the sides of the structure; many believed they were used to make repairs on the building long ago. Now they were just covered with moss and vines.

  Er-Lan headed for the main entrance. It was a large opening with an arched roof, like an upside-down “V” that made anyone entering the building feel insignificant. Torches decorated the walls, some hidden behind panes of red glass, splashing perpetual hues of dusk on the ground, shading everything with a warm crimson glow. The sun, now kissing the horizon, was adding subtle oranges to the display, creating a magnificent banquet of colors that went unnoticed by the zombies, except for Er-Lan; he thought it all looked fantastic.

  Moving through the opening, the zombie entered the church. Rooms sat on the left and right side of the structures, filled with zombie generals and their squad commanders. In the main hall, sitting on a throne made of obsidian and quartz, was Tu-Kar, the zombie warlord.

  Er-Lan shuffled toward his commander, head lowered and properly cowed.

  “What is this?” the warlord asked, his scratchy voice echoing off the cold stone walls. “Wasn’t this zombie part of the rear guard?”

  “Yes, sire,” Er-Lan voice was timid, barely audible.

  “Where are the others?” Tu-Kar voice boomed off the huge glass windows.

  The generals, hearing their commander’s voice, stepped out of their tiny rooms, and entered the main audience chamber, many of them growling at the tiny zombie standing before their ruler.

  “Well … the villagers, they … umm …”

  “Out with it!” the zombie warlord demanded. “Tell Tu-Kar what transpired. What happened to the rest of the rear guard?”

  “They were destroyed, sire.” Er-Lan took a step away from the throne.

  Tu-Kar was suddenly on his feet, glaring down at the timid monster.

  “Explain!”

  “Well … the NPCs in the last village attacked the rear guard, and this zombie thought it best to come report to the great Tu-Kar.”

  “That last village only held gravely wounded villagers and old men,” the zombie warlord said. “How is it they were able to defeat Tu-Kar’s rear guard?”

  “Other NPCs arrived in the village and fought.”

  He took another step backward, trying to get farther away from his enraged leader, only to bump into something big and solid behind him. Er-Lan glanced over his shoulder and found a zombie general standing in his way. It was Ro-Zar, the most violent of the commanders.

  The hulking monster glared down at him. He wore the most elaborate iron armor Er-Lan had ever seen, with decorative curves and lines carved into the metallic surface. Reaching up, he removed his pointed metal helmet, revealing his angry face. A thin line of black hair ran along the center of his scalp and extended down the back of his head. The short bristles almost seemed like sharp spikes, though Er-Lan knew they were just hair. Everything on this monster seemed dangerous; Er-Lan was terrified.

  “Where is this zombie going?” the general growled.

  Er-Lan swallowed nervously, then moved away from the massive zombie.

  “How many villagers attacked the rear guard?” Tu-Kar asked. “Twenty? Thirty?”

  “Four.” Er-Lan’s voice was soft … and scared.

  “What?” the warlord asked.

  “Speak up, zombie,” Ro-Zar said, shoving the timid zombie forward.

  “Er-Lan said four,” he repeated.

  “FOUR?!” Tu-Kar screamed. He stepped off the throne and approached. “These villagers must have been on horseback, heavily armed and extremely strong. How many of the enemy perished?”

  “Well … none of the villagers perished, sire,” Er-Lan reported, then cringed, expecting the fatal blow to strike. He closed his eyes and waited for the end to come.

  No one in the hall spoke; it was absolutely silent. Footsteps echoed through the room as sharp claws clicked on the ground. Er-Lan cautiously opened one eye and saw Tu-Kar approaching him, a look of unbridled rage on his green face. The scar that ran down the front of his head seemed to pulse with each heartbeat. His milky-white eye that intersected the scar was looking off in the distance, but his lone, good eye was filled with such anger, it hurt to look at him.

  “Is this zombie telling Tu-Kar that the four NPC warriors survived, and all the zombies were destroyed?” the warlord asked. “Only Er-Lan lives to tell the tale.”

  The small monster nodded.

  “These warriors must have been great. It is good that Er-Lan thought to report this news.” The warlord moved a step closer, the claws on each toe clicking on the cold, stone floor. “Were they huge? Tell Tu-Kar what was seen.”

  Er-Lan took a nervous swallow.
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br />   “They were not huge warriors, sire,” the zombie said. “It was one warrior and three children.”

  Tu-Kar grew silent, his wheezing breaths quieting to a mere whisper; it made him seem even more dangerous.

  “So, tell me if Tu-Kar understands this correctly.” Tu-Kar’s voice was quiet as a graveyard. “My squad of zombies, some of the best fighters in the army, were destroyed by a single warrior and three children, is that correct?”

  Er-Lan nodded. “When their skills with sword and bow were seen, this zombie thought it best to report to Tu-Kar.”

  “This zombie was a coward and ran.” Ro-Zar growled like an angry beast. The towering commander moved closer to the little zombie, pushing him closer to his warlord.

  “Is this so?” Tu-Kar asked.

  Er-Lan shook his head, but lowered his gaze to the ground.

  “Did this zombie even raise his claws in defense of his fellow comrades?” Ro-Zar prodded the little monster in the back with a sharp claw.

  Er-Lan shook his head again.

  “And what is the punishment for cowardice?” Tu-Kar asked.

  “Death.” Er-Lan’s voice was weak, almost nonexistent. “But the NPC warrior was so good with his diamond sword, it was impossible for any to stand against him. This zombie felt it more important to tell Tu-Kar—”

  “Did you say diamond sword?” Tu-Kar asked, interrupting the zombie.

  Raising his head, Er-Lan looked up at Tu-Kar and nodded. “Yes, the warrior used a diamond sword with incredible skill.”

  Tu-Kar clasped his hands behind his back and paced back and forth for a moment, contemplating this information.

  Er-Lan’s heart pounded in his chest as he watched his leader. Cold beads of sweat formed on his forehead, some of them flowing into one of the many unhealed scars that dotted his face. It stung a little, but reminded Er-Lan he was still alive. Moving his eyes, he looked to the left and right. All the generals moved closer, their angry eyes focused on the timid monster. His weakness had been a stain on his family, and now it was a stain on this army as well. He was used to stares of resentment from other zombies; many thought he was pathetic because of his diminutive size and absent strength, but the looks he received from all these generals was something completely different. They hated him with every fiber of their being, as if he somehow tainted the very ground on which he stood.

  Suddenly, Tu-Kar stopped his pacing and glared down at Er-Lan.

  “This zombie will not be killed,” Tu-Kar shouted in a loud voice.

  Some of the generals moaned in disappointment.

  “What is this zombie named?” the warlord asked.

  “Er-Lan, sire.”

  “This zombie, Er-Lan will go forth and capture that diamond sword and return it to Tu-Kar,” the warlord shouted in a loud voice. “Let all zombies cheer for Er-Lan!”

  A couple of the zombie commanders cheered, but most of them just moaned. They all had a thirst for violence, and Er-Lan had been a ripe target. But for the moment, Tu-Kar had spared his life.

  “It must be known to all,” Tu-Kar proclaimed, “if this zombie ever returns to the army of the zombie warlord without this diamond sword, then let all zombies fall on Er-Lan until there is no HP remaining.”

  The zombie commander moved closer to the terrified Er-Lan. The smaller zombie shook in fright. Tu-Kar moved his mouth next to Er-Lan’s ear and whispered. “Cowardice will not be tolerated in this army.” The warlord’s voice was strangely calm … it made him seem even more dangerous. “When the plans are complete, the Far Lands will belong to the zombies and will be ruled by Tu-Kar. Those who fail will face swift and brutal punishment. Now, go get that sword or be punished here and now.”

  “Yes, Tu-Kar … yes Tu-Kar,” Er-Lan stammered as he slowly turned, and stepped away from the warlord and generals. The monster turned and shuffled out of the ancient church, then ran for his life before the great zombie warlord changed his mind.

  “Let’s camp for the night,” Cutter said.

  They’d been following the zombie mob that had attacked the last village through the afternoon, and the sun was now nearing the horizon, splashing oranges and warm reds across the land.

  “Not on the trail,” Watcher suggested. “Let’s go into the woods where we won’t be seen. There might be more monsters about.”

  He hoped it would sound like a brave idea, but it came out sounding like a cowardly one. Planter gave Watcher a grin, then looked toward Cutter as the warrior stormed through the forest, not even bothering to comment on Watcher’s suggestion.

  “We’ll camp here. This is a good place.” The warrior pointed to a recession in the forest floor.

  Cutter placed a block of wood on the ground, then struck flint and steel together. In no time, the wood was aflame. The campfire drove back the growing darkness as the sun settled itself behind the horizon for the night, allowing darkness to wrap around their little camp.

  Blaster pulled out blocks of dirt from his inventory and built a wall between them and the trail. The barricade would keep the firelight from unwanted eyes on the road, but also act as a line of defense if necessary, though realistically, there were too few of them to have any hope of survival if the zombie mob returned.

  Moving across the campsite, Planter pulled blocks of wool from her inventory and placed them on the ground, one for each NPC. It offered a soft place to sit and rest.

  Cutter sat down and removed his armor, the plates clanking together, reminding Watcher of the sounds from his village’s blacksmith shop.

  I hope our blacksmith survived, Watcher thought.

  Once his armor was off, the big warrior then pulled out an apple and ate. Planter sat next to the Cutter and smiled when he offered her a loaf of bread. She gratefully accepted. Watcher could just imagine her green eyes staring up at Cutter with admiration. She was probably impressed with his fighting skills back there on the road.

  Watcher sighed, then placed his bow and quiver of arrows on the ground. He removed his chain mail and stretched, the knotted muscles in his back complaining bitterly in response. Reaching into his inventory, he pulled out a piece of melon and offered it to Planter.

  “You want some more to eat?” he said to her.

  Planter turned just as Cutter gave her a piece of cooked pork.

  “Oh … uhhh … thanks, but Cutter just gave me this.”

  She held up the pork chop and smiled.

  “I’ll take it,” Cutter said.

  Picking up his diamond sword, he skewered the fruit with the tip of his blade and pulled it from Watcher’s grasp.

  With a sigh, Watcher pulled out another slice of melon and ate.

  “So … ah, Watcher … right?” Cutter asked.

  The young boy nodded.

  “So, Watcher, why don’t you carry a sword?” Cutter asked. “The girl here carries one.”

  “Her name is Planter,” Watcher snapped.

  “Right, Planter carries one, and so does he,” he said, pointing to Blaster.

  The dark-haired boy held a short blade in his hand. It was a curved thing and razor sharp, longer than a knife but shorter than a sword. Blaster held the blade in the air, then grabbed another and held both before him. The metallic edges reflected the light from the fire, making each seem as if they were coated with flames.

  “This one has the two little short swords,” Cutter continued. “Not very long, but at least they’re sharp.”

  “They’re long enough for me,” Blaster said. “Besides, my weapon of choice is TNT.”

  “That’s great, but tell that to a spider that’s chasing you with their sharp, curved claws. They won’t stand around and wait for your little blocks to blow up beneath them.”

  “Perhaps,” Blaster replied with a wry grin, “or perhaps not.”

  He gave him a maniacal laugh that caused little square goose bumps to form on Watcher’s arms.

  “OK … we have the mayor of crazy-town here.” Cutter stared at Blaster for an instant, then tur
ned to Watcher. “But you. All you have is your little bow and arrow. Why no sword?”

  “Well …” Watcher started to say, but Planter jumped in.

  “He’s great with that bow,” she said. “Watcher’s a better shot than anyone in our village.”

  He was embarrassed that Planter was defending him, but Watcher was a little intimidated by Cutter. The big warrior reminded him of Fencer back in his own village.

  “It won’t help much if a zombie is standing right in front of you,” Cutter replied.

  “They’ll never get close to him because—”

  “Planter, you don’t need to protect me,” Watcher said. “I’ve come to terms with this long ago.”

  She gave him a sad, understanding glance, then turned back to Cutter.

  “I’m not strong enough to wield a sword, and besides, I’m too clumsy.” Watcher glanced at the ground and continued. “I’ve tried lots of times, but a sword just feels wrong in my hands. Growing up, I always wanted to be a warrior, with diamond armor and a diamond blade—” he glanced at Cutter’s sword “—but it was all too heavy for me. My weapon is the bow and I can make it sing like nobody else.”

  “So you thought you’d go after a zombie army with just your little bow there? Is that right?”

  Watcher nodded.

  Cutter laughed. “I hope you brought two hundred arrows with you, ’cause that’s what you’ll need to destroy all those monsters.”

  “I’m not here to destroy them all,” Watcher snapped. “I’m here to rescue my friends. My father and sister were captured and I’m gonna find them and set them free.”

  “With your little bow and arrow?” Cutter laughed.

  “I don’t care what you say, I’ll figure out how to do it and save them,” he glared at the warrior. “They’re my family, and you never give up on family. You see, my father taught me that—”