No Mere Zombie: Deathless Book 2

by Chris Fox

“Where is it now?”

  “We have confirmation that the package is still in Panama. An extraction team landed, but faced heavy resistance from these walking corpses,” The Director replied, eyeing the Old Man sidelong as the car began to descend. “We haven’t created an official term for the creatures, though Z, zombie and zed have been suggested repeatedly.”

  “Draugr, Mark. They’re called draugr. I don’t care about the package. What I do care about are the Arks. I want a bird assigned to every one and I want hourly reports detailing everyone coming or going. That includes the one in Peru,” the Old Man ordered. The car slid smoothly to a halt and the doors opened. Mark made no move to exit.

  “What about the package? That’s a live nuke, sir,” he protested, surprising himself.

  “It’s in hostile territory. Recovery will cost us and we have twenty-one more.” Mohn gestured for Mark to exit the elevator car. “Focus on the Arks. We need to know everything.”

  “Arks?” Mark asked, stepping into the doorway, but not quite exiting. “You’re talking about the pyramids, right?”

  Something like surprise flitted across the Old Man’s face, the sudden realization that he’d made a verbal slip. Mark had seen it hundreds of times on just as many faces, the mark of a man who’d revealed information he’d intended to keep secret.

  “Yes, Mark, the pyramids. They’re the pinnacle of an entire civilization. If they’re all occupied like the one in Peru, we’re dealing with some very dangerous people. So focus our resources there and forget about the package,” Mohn ordered. His gaze hardened, but not before Mark caught something else there. Deception. The Old Man was throwing him off the scent about something. But why?

  He stepped from the elevator and turned to face the old man. “Of course, sir.”

  The doors slid closed.

  “Benson, this is The Director,” Mark said, the sound picked up by the sub-dermal microphone inserted into his throat. “Get two researchers, one on the word ‘Draugr’. The other on the word Ark, with a capital A.”

  "Yes, sir,” she answered instantly. “I’ll have reports compiled within the hour.”

  Mark didn’t bother replying. He headed up the corridor towards his quarters with slow, deliberate steps as he contemplated the unthinkable.

  Chapter 19- Tracker

  Cyntia raised her muzzle, tasting the night air as she sought Trevor’s elusive scent. She’d found it three times now, but each time it had vanished as quickly as she’d discovered it. Brief hints that the man himself was close, just out of reach. Each time a more conventional search had shown two sets of tracks making their way north.

  The familiar musk of sweat reminded her of leaning against Trevor back before the final assault in Cajamarca, one of the last times she’d seen him alive.

  Do you taste that, Ka-Ken? His scent is sickly. Tainted. He has become one of the deathless. Your quest is futile. Your He cannot be reclaimed, cannot be redeemed. He has become the ancient enemy, terrible and cunning.

  Cyntia ignored the voice, as she often did. It rarely told her anything useful, though it had taught her to track by scent. It had claimed that she was a tracker, one of the Ka-Ken gifted with the supernaturally enhanced senses. That was proving useful, as she’d have otherwise lost Trevor’s trail long ago. Even still, the quest seemed futile and she understood why the others thought her foolish to pursue it.

  Their opinions of her ranged from ambivalence to disdain, perhaps because she was the weakest of the females. The omega of their little pack. She was comfortable with that role, or she would have been if she cared for any of them. Yet she did not. She’d joined their number because she and Liz had once been friends. The fact that Liz refused to join a search for her own brother showed just how divergent their priorities had grown.

  Trevor was a good man. Strong and intelligent. Capable. The sort who faced the end of the world on his feet, shielding those weaker than himself despite the sacrifice it might call for. It didn’t hurt that he had the kind of shoulders you couldn’t keep your hands off of. He didn’t deserve the fate that had befallen him, one she simply couldn’t accept.

  But was that a reason to go haring off searching for him? Not really. Cyntia understood her need for him was irrational, but it was all she had. So she searched.

  Cyntia knelt next to a boot print. The tread matched those she’d followed from the site of the motocar where they’d found Sheila’s corpse. It might not be Trevor, but it was the best lead she had. She loped along the dirt track, following the bootprints.

  The moon rose, the slender crescent providing more than enough light to see as she continued her search. Hours passed as she fell into a steady rhythm, pounding along in the direction she hoped Trevor had gone.

  What would she do if she found him? What if he were a zombie, like the others? It was possible that there might be a cure, but she didn’t know of one. The Mother might, but Cyntia didn’t trust her. She’d probably kill Trevor on sight if he were one of the undead. So what could she do? Put him out of his misery? She just didn’t know. It was a special brand of agony, the uncertainty. So she put it from her mind. First she had to locate him, and then she would deal with what came next.

  Her journey took her over ridges and switchbacks, but the elevation gradually decreased as she neared the jungle. Was that their destination? She quickened her pace, fear spiking as she realized that she might not be able to track them through the dense foliage. There would be a million competing scents, and the jungle would swallow their footprints.

  There. Up ahead a small fire flickered between the trees. Someone had set up a camp and the tracks led in that exact direction. She crept through the trees, suppressing the wave of hope that surged within her. If it were Trevor, then the fact that he could light a campfire suggested that something of who he had been had survived. Mindless zombies didn’t need fire.

  She neared the camp, slipping from tree to tree with the shadows cloaking her approach. Only one figure sat in the firelight, a familiar green baseball cap and shock of reddish-orange hair poking out from under it. Elation filled her. She dropped the shadows, stepping into the firelight.

  “Trevor?” she asked, tentatively. Would he be happy to see her? She knew he’d been attracted to her, but he’d also acted as if she were a distraction most of the time. She’d hoped it was merely an act concealing affection similar to her own.

  The figure stirred, turning to face her. His eyes were glassy, but they focused on her. Trevor had no visible wound, but he was far too pale to be living. Yet there he stood, next to a fire it seemed he’d created. How could that be if he were a zombie?

  Cyntia felt a sharp pain as something grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her back. Claws settled around her throat, just barely pricking the skin.

  “Shift back to your human form, or I will slash out your throat. By the time you recover I’ll have severed your head, and trust me when I say there’s no recovering from that. Not even for a Ka-Ken.” The voice was male, cultured and friendly with an almost British accent. Incongruous when set next to the man’s actions.

  “All right,” she agreed, willing herself to shift back. She shrank, but the man’s grip didn’t slacken as her body changed. A few moments later she stood there naked. Her eyes pleaded with Trevor for help, but his glassy gaze returned to the fire. What had she stumbled into?

  “I will release you now, but know that if you struggle or attempt to attack me I will destroy you,” the voice said, releasing her as promised. She stumbled forward, turning to face her assailant.

  The stranger’s ivory clothing shone under the moonlight, his features shadowed. Only his eyes stood out, pools of sickly green that studied her dispassionately.

  “You are following me. Why? Are you one of those Isis has recruited? Be truthful and I may spare you,” the man commanded, his eyes narrowing as he awaited her response.

  “I was with them, yes. I left to find him,” she said, nodding towards Trevor. “He was one of our comp
anions before the world ended. I … I care for him.” The admission was difficult.

  “You’ve found him. Let us assume I allow you to live. What then?” the man asked, raising a single eyebrow. His stance relaxed, though she had the feeling that he could still kill her before she could cross the distance between them.

  “I don’t know. I was hoping he was still alive, but he's ... is there anything left of the man who used to exist?” she asked, her gaze shifting to Trevor. He stood placidly, seemingly unaware of their presence.

  “He is very nearly intact, a rarity even in my time. It can only happen when the individual accepts the change,” the man explained. He gestured at the fire. “Be seated. Let us discuss this like civilized people. I will answer your questions and you will answer mine. If those answers please me, I will allow you to live.”

  Cyntia did as she was bid, sitting on a sloped rock near the fire. The warmth of it was welcome. She gathered her knees to her chest, conscious of her nakedness, though the stranger seemed oblivious. Trevor sat as well, just a few feet away. His posture was wrong, and his head moved with jerky little twitches.

  “He gave his name as Trevor. In time he will recover more of his former self if he feeds often and well. Eventually he will remember nearly everything from his former life. He will closely resemble me, once he has fully awakened as a deathless,” the man explained, razored teeth flashing in the firelight as he spoke. He sat on a fallen log on the far side of the fire. “I hope that answer suffices. I am Irakesh of the Cradle. And you are?”

  “Cyntia,” she gave simply.

  “Well Cyntia, you have found this man you care for. You know that in time he will become much as he was before,” Irakesh explained, steepling his fingers as he studied her with that horrible green gaze. “Yet he will be deathless, the sworn enemy of your kind. We are on opposite sides of a war. What will you do if he attempts to kill you? Will you allow it, or seek to slay your mate?”

  “War?” Cyntia scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “I fight no war. I seek only to live my life as I choose. If Trevor becomes the man he was, then I will help him remember.”

  “He will become so much more than he ever was,” Irakesh explained, gaze still weighing her. “In time he will grow powerful, a deathless of incredible strength. He will fight at my side, helping extend my rule through the northern continent. Standing at his side means standing at mine. Is this something you can accept?”

  “If you will help Trevor become the man he was, then I will follow you,” Cyntia said.

  Chapter 20- Don't poke the goddess

  Jordan fell back as the Mother swept into the Ark like a force of nature. He trailed in her wake, while Bridget hung back just a bit further. The last time he’d seen that expression on her face, the Mother had ripped off his arms right before tearing out his throat. She’d worn it since the night before, when she’d told them they were leaving the newly fortified church where the refugees were holing up. She hadn’t spoken since and Jordan was smart enough not to be the one to break that silence.

  “What do you think happened?” Bridget asked, voice pitched low. They waited as the Mother’s form retreated down the corridor. It seemed wise to give her whatever space she needed right now.

  “I don’t know,” Jordan said, cinching the strap across his chest. The weight of the guns in his pack kept pulling it loose. It was possible he’d been over-prepared, but what was the point of being so strong if you didn’t use it? “She just stopped mid-sentence while she was giving that ‘accept the gift’ speech. She must have felt something. Blair is pretty good with that shaping crap. Maybe he sent her a message?”

  “If he did contact her, she didn’t much like hearing it,” Bridget replied. She peered after the Mother, apparently not in any more of a hurry to follow than Jordan was.

  “We should warn the others about her mood,” Jordan suggested. This corridor was the fastest way to reach the mess, but he didn’t want to brave it yet. “No sense poking the antediluvian goddess when she’s upset. We should head to the mess and see what we can find out, then maybe we’ll send Liz down to talk to her.”

  Bridget gave a tight nod, but her attention was still on the Mother’s retreating form. She’d gone pale and he couldn’t blame her. The way the Mother acted, the power she displayed. She was a goddess in every way that mattered.

  After a few tense minutes Jordan steeled himself and started up the corridor. Bridget followed, breathing more relaxed now. They wound silently through the halls, relieved that they could no longer hear the Mother.

  “Jordan?” Bridget asked, shattering the silence. She touched his shoulder, giving a quick squeeze before releasing him. “I enjoyed this trip. You’re easy to travel with. Thanks for showing me how to shoot.”

  “I never envisioned gun-toting werewolves, but with our strength it makes sense to carry some real firepower,” he replied, happy to focus on something else. He grew easier as they neared the relative safety of the mess. “I’d like to train everyone to shoot and see if we can’t get you to carry rifles at the very least. Handguns don’t make a lot of sense. If something is that close, we can just eat it.”

  They entered the mess, which was lit by the series of softly glowing diamonds set into the walls at regular intervals. Blair and Liz were hunched over the marble table, pouring over what looked like a map. They didn’t so much as glance up when he and Bridget entered.

  Bridget sidled over to the table, slipping into the seat next to Blair. Her interest there was clear, though she’d flirted with Jordan more than once already. He liked Bridget, but he’d been around enough women like her to spot trouble before he got embroiled in it.

  “What are you studying?” Bridget asked, peering at the map. Jordan dropped down across from her, his bulk filling the space next to Liz. The map was local, a printout that they’d liberated from Mohn Ops.

  “You want to tell them?” Blair asked, setting down a black Sharpie he’d been using to draw with. He’d added a circle around a village to the north. There didn’t seem to be anything remarkable about it.

  “You have a better understanding of Irakesh. Besides, if I tell the story I’ll probably end up breaking something again,” Liz countered, scrubbing a hand through her long copper hair. She was more agitated than Jordan had ever seen her.

  “All right,” Blair said, turning to face Jordan. Bridget sat close enough that her shoulder touched his, but if he noticed, he didn’t show it. “While you were gone we found a deathless in the Ark. He gave his name as Irakesh, and he demonstrated powers we can’t even begin to understand. I don’t know what he was after or how he even got inside, but he escaped up the ravine to the north.”

  “We followed him,” Liz broke in, eyes narrowing. “He sent a couple hundred zombies to slow us down and by the time we’d dealt with them, he’d gotten away.”

  “Please tell me you guys have some good news to report,” Blair added, setting the marker down and massaging his temples. “We really need something to hold onto at this point. Trevor’s gone. Power’s out across the globe, so far as we can tell, and zombies are everywhere.”

  “We do have a spot of good news,” Jordan interjected. He reached for a bowl of peanuts that someone had left, picking up a handful. “We’re up to fourteen refugees and the church is secure now. The faster zombies have probed the defenses a few times, but two of the refugees are werewolves and have kept them at bay.”

  “There’s bad news too,” Bridget said, looking up at Blair from under her long lashes. He seemed to eat it up. “The Mother sensed something happening, I think she felt Irakesh leaving the Ark. I’ve never seen her that angry. I wouldn’t recommend talking to her any time soon. I think she might seriously hurt someone.”

  “I’m going to go get packed,” Jordan said, tossing the handful of nuts into his mouth. He savored the saltiness as he picked up his backpack.

  “Packed?” Blair asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

  “An enemy operative invad
ed the Ark, got whatever it was he was after, then fled north. The Mother’s reaction suggests whatever he took is of vital importance,” he paused to chew before continuing. “She won’t be able to pursue him because she has to stay here and consolidate her power base. More cities need to be cleared and she has to contact every werewolf that she can find. But at the same time she can’t let this Irakesh get away. Someone has to go after him. Us. So I’ll be in my room packing.”

  They looked thoughtful as they digested his words, but no one said anything as he left the room and headed up the tunnel towards the quarters they’d taken for themselves. He took long deliberate strides, carefully considering the situation as he wound through corridors.

  Who was this Irakesh? What abilities did he possess? More importantly, what had he stolen? They’d need those answers before they began their pursuit, which meant someone would have to question the Mother. Hopefully one of the trio in the mess would be bold enough to take that on. He certainly wasn’t going to. He’d already been killed by her once and if it happened again it would be a lot more permanent.

  Jordan rounded the corner to the row of rooms where his quarters lay. He’d deliberately chosen one far from the others. It gave him solitude, and time to think was something he needed in abundance these days. His entire life had done a violent 180 and he didn’t know who he was anymore. A soldier, certainly, but what cause did he fight for? The lack of an answer bothered him more than he cared to admit.

  He dropped his pack next to the strange foam bed. The deep blue substance molded itself to his body, which was comfortable but also a little unnerving. He sat heavily, allowing the bed to form around his legs. Perhaps a nap was a good next step. He was exhausted from the trip to Cajamarca and he’d need to be sharp if they were dispatched to pursue this Irakesh.

  Beep beep, beep beep. The insistent chiming came from a bulky black box sitting on his makeshift desk. He had no idea what purpose the clear platform jutting from the wall had served, but it filled its new role adequately. He stood up, hand dropping instinctively to the .460 holstered at his side even though there was no real cause.