The Sword of Saint Michael

by D C P Fox

  “So you believe I’m as indestructible as they are?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. But maybe Alexander can shed some light on this. He’s sharp as hell, and he’s a molecular biologist, a professor with a PhD.”

  “Well, I took enough Biology. If this were just a virus, I’d either be immune completely or become just like them. But a virus couldn’t bring you back from the dead, and George had a portion of his brain removed—probably eaten. You don’t survive that, at least normally.”

  He stared off to the side, focusing on some food crates as he contemplated this development. But the more he tried to wrap his head around it all, the more it spun. One thing, however, was clear—this woman would make a powerful enemy, and an even more powerful ally. Finally, he said, “Well, I’m just glad you’re on my side—you are on my side, right?”

  “I want to do whatever I can to reverse this zombie pathogen, if that’s what you mean.”

  That was what Marty meant, but he had another thought. “Hey, if we can get you to Colorado Springs, maybe they can study you, find a cure.”

  “That was my thinking. Do you think you could . . . ?” Jocelyn trailed off.

  “You want to know if I can go with you to Colorado Springs?”

  “Well, yes, but first I need to find a pharmacy. I have . . . high blood pressure. It’s important that I get to a pharmacy first.”

  This was odd. “But that kind of medication must be at the air base in Colorado Springs. Why would you want to go to a pharmacy first? High-blood-pressure medication can’t be that urgent.” She’s still hiding something. Something about her illness.

  “You said rules have changed. Do HIPAA rules apply? Do I have to tell you the details of all my health problems?”

  Marty shook his head. “If I’m to accompany you to Colorado Springs, or at least let you join our group, I have to know the full story. Why did you lie just now?”

  She sighed. Clearly, there was a heavy weight on her shoulders.

  “I have . . . I have . . . I have a mental illness.”

  Marty grunted. “One that’s serious enough that you need your medication right away.”

  She nodded and sniffed. In the soft light, it was hard to see, but it looked like tears fell down her cheeks. Clearly, this was hard to admit. Marty concluded she was telling the truth.

  She sighed, took a deep breath. “I get . . . paranoid delusions. I can get them at any time.” So she’s psychotic. He’d had experiences with that, none of them good. She gave him a pleading look.

  “And what happens when you get these delusions?” He spoke slowly.

  “I can become dangerous. To everyone around me.”

  She started to weep, averted her gaze and looked down. “Right now, I don’t trust myself, but when I get the delusions, I won’t trust you, I won’t trust anybody.”

  “I see.”

  She looked back up at him, and now he definitely saw the tears streaming down her face. “With all due respect, sheriff, I don’t think you do. I don’t want to be responsible for killing you.”

  He sat down on the concrete floor, cross-legged. “Have you killed anyone before?” That was the million-dollar question.

  But she shook her head. “No, but I’m not sure what I’m capable of. I’ve been under a lot of stress.”

  “So you are lucid now. Have you had an episode since you went off your meds?”

  She nodded. “I still need to finish my story.” She told him how she’d heard voices and attempted suicide but could not because of her healing powers.

  What a tale. Despite everything he himself had been through, he couldn’t help feeling sorry for her.

  She wiped the tears off her cheeks, and Marty took his eyes off her. His gaze landed on her sword, glinting in the light coming through from the narrow windows in the doors.

  “How many people have you told about your mental illness?”

  “Outside of my family and health care professionals, you’re the first.”

  He especially felt sorry for her now.

  But now he had a grander mission in front of him. For the first time in a week, he saw a direction, a purpose laid out for him. All he had to do was seize it. He was satisfied with her story, and a powerful ally was much preferred to a powerful enemy. But more important than that, he had an opportunity to redeem himself for butchering his wife and daughter if he helped Jocelyn’s quest in finding a cure. “I’ll accompany you to our group at the supermarket. There’s a pharmacy. Hopefully you will find your medication there.”

  She stared at him. “Thank you,” was all she could manage.

  He grunted. “I can’t promise you Colorado Springs—I have a county and now a group of people to look after. But the county seems lost. Maybe our group can accompany you there—it would certainly be a better environment for us than a grocery store.”

  “If it’s there. It will be dangerous, even if it is.” Now he trusted her more, just from the simple fact that she wanted to make sure he was making the right decision for himself.

  “The idea of spending the rest of my life in that grocery store scares me more, especially the winters.” He decided to change the subject. He glanced back at the sword. “What are these symbols, if you don’t mind me asking? Do they signify anything?”

  “It spells ‘Draugar.’ They’re a race of the dead who come back to life . . .”

  “Zombies?” he asked.

  “Those are ancient runes,” Jocelyn told the sheriff said. “Etched in the sword when it was forged in the tenth century.”

  “Why does it look new?” the sheriff asked.

  “It’s . . . magical?” she said, chagrined.

  The sheriff laughed. “I don’t believe in such things. Still, these runes . . .”

  “But you now believe in a zombie apocalypse.”

  “So you believe someone made this sword specifically to fight a zombie apocalypse?”

  “I’m starting to believe someone made it for me to defend myself during one. Maybe so I could survive to help find a cure.”

  “That seems a little far-fetched.”

  “You said you’d believe whatever I told you,” Jocelyn pointed out.

  “I believe the facts, not necessarily the conclusions.”

  “Well, the fact is this sword is magical.”

  The sheriff nodded. “If I’m to believe you, I have to give you that.”

  “Good. Then you’ll believe me when I tell you I need you to tie me up.”

  The sheriff narrowed his eyes. “Now why would I do that?”

  “To prevent me from harming anyone if I get paranoid or delusional.”

  He sat down on the concrete floor, cross-legged. “What are the chances of a relapse before we get to the pharmacy?”

  “I can’t . . . I don’t know.”

  He nodded, frowning, grunting. “I’m sorry, but I won’t tie you up.”

  “You have to believe me. I’m dangerous.”

  The sheriff nodded, still frowning. “And so are the zombies. I’d rather take my chances with you.”

  He didn’t understand, I’ve already killed six people! But she couldn’t bring herself to tell him that. Still, it was obvious he could see the pleading in her eyes.

  “The fact is, ma’am, we all have our faults. Hell, I don’t trust Vin as far as I can throw him. He still believes the new president was behind all this. I tell him he’s crazy, but he won’t listen.”

  “And you’re not listening, either. You call him crazy, but I’m the one who’s actually, clinically, insane. He’s simply paranoid.”

  The sheriff nodded. “And delusional, like you.”

  She sighed. “But I’m dangerous.”

  “So is he.”

  “But I’m violent.” She gestured to her sword and shotgun on the floor.

  “So is he.”

  “But you don’t understand,” she pleaded.

  “I believe I do, Jocelyn. I believe I do.”

  “But if
you did, you wouldn’t even compare him to me,” she countered.

  “No, I understand. We all have our strengths, and we all have our weaknesses, and we all have our. . . baggage. Take Emily. We have to take care of her, and when we leave the market, whenever that is, she will slow us down.”

  “But she won’t kill you.”

  He sighed. “I’ve heard enough. This will be our secret. We won’t tell the others—you shouldn’t have told me. You’re lucky I’ve got a good head on my shoulders. You tell Vin, he’ll kill you first chance he gets, I reckon’.”

  “Aren’t you worried about me at all?”

  “Of course I’m worried. But I’m worried about a lot of things, about a lot of people. Hell, I’m even worried about myself. My wife and daughter are dead. By my hand! I killed them to save my life. Yes, they were zombies, but I could have let them turn me into a zombie. At least then we’d be together now.”

  “I believe you did them a favor.”

  “Really? You think? And what if they find a cure?”

  She was about to say, a cure is unlikely, but she stopped herself. She had to maintain hope in finding a cure, given she was willing to give herself over to experimentation for that cause.

  “But my son is still a zombie,” the sheriff continued. “I didn’t have to harm him to save myself. There’s still hope for him. That’s what I need to focus on now. And I refuse to live alone. Because that means I die alone. If we humans stick together and stay loyal to each other, we might just survive. But we won’t if we tie our hands behind our back.”

  Jocelyn got it. He had decided she was less dangerous than the draugar were without her protection. She moved to retrieve her weapons from the floor. “I don’t know what we can do, sheriff.”

  “Please, call me Marty.”

  “Okay, Marty, but you need to call me Jocelyn, then.” She smiled. “This problem is far bigger than us. But I don’t want to just survive. I want to help, in some way. I know that sounds crazy . . .”

  “I have a good feeling about you, Jocelyn.”

  Out back behind some storage sheds, Marty and Jocelyn buried a bag full of protein bars and a bag of almonds. That way, if they were to run out of food, they’d always have a place to retrieve some.

  Before venturing out north, Marty fished out a cell phone and turned it on.

  “Is there still cell coverage?” Jocelyn asked as he watched the screen boot up.

  “Went out a few days ago, but I keep trying, in case. If the cell grid comes up, it means someone revived the towers . . . Nope, still no signal.” He shut off the phone to preserve the charge.

  The area was devoid of cars, except not far up the road from the store stood an old orange Hyundai with the driver’s door open. There was blood on the door and the asphalt below.

  It was a keyed ignition, and although the key was in it, when they tried to start it, the ignition wouldn’t turn on. Marty guessed the engine had been left on for a while, eventually using up all the gas. Once the snow melted, he and Vin had tried to start most of the cars on the roads, but they were either out of gas from running so long, or the keys or fobs were missing, or both. Invariably, no one could start any parked cars in the two-thirds-full parking lot.

  With beautiful blue skies, the air heated well such that Marty perspired. They reached the outskirts of town soon after the sun disappeared behind the mountains. They passed several houses on both sides of the highway, leading into denser housing, and when they reached an apartment building on the left, Jocelyn called from behind him to stop.

  He froze in place as two figures crossed in front into the road. Each had a Glock handgun out and pointed at them. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a man on each side of the road in line with them. He turned around and saw two men behind Jocelyn—they were surrounded.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Day Eight

  The men in front of Marty and Jocelyn loomed about a hundred feet away. They were closing. The two men in the rear had shotguns, but they were hanging by a strap behind them. Did they not want to waste the shells? Did they even have any?

  All the men wore fatigues and sported large beards. Most were bald, but not all.

  “No sudden movements, now,” said one man. “All we want is your gear—your backpacks and weapons. Just to show we’re not too mean-spirited, you can keep your water and your lives.” The water was not much of a concession. The supermarket had running water, and Marty suspected most places did where there was either town water or a pump with backup electricity.

  “When I say so,” Jocelyn muttered under her breath, “drop on your belly and stay there. Nod if you understand.”

  What the hell was she doing? He only had a few seconds to decide. Should they test their theory now that she was impervious to bullets? If not, they’d both be killed. But it would be a much harsher world if they couldn’t acquire new weapons.

  Marty gave a slight nod.

  After a brief pause, Jocelyn appeared to think things over and sighed. “All right, you can take everything. Do you agree, Marty?”

  “Yep,” he called.

  “Smart girl,” said the man. “Now reach for your shotgun slowly. If you look threatening, we’ll fire. Understand?”

  She nodded.

  “Good. Now the shotgun.”

  She reached back for it, and made a show of starting to place the shotgun on the ground when she called, “Drop!”

  Immediately Marty dropped to the asphalt. Gun fire erupted from all sides. Marty aimed his shotgun at one man in front of them and hit him in the groin area while the other man’s chest exploded from Jocelyn’s blast. Both men cried out and dropped their weapons and collapsed.

  Marty turned his head to the right and then to the left. Both men on either side had fallen. By now, Jocelyn had to have been hit at least once, if not several times. Marty turned his body around and aimed at the two at their rear. They stared wide-eyed, looked at each other, then looked back at Marty and Jocelyn, who remained standing, her shotgun pointed at the two men, too. The two men surrendered, dropping their handguns and putting their hands up.

  A shot rang out from behind. Marty turned around to see the man he had shot in the groin with a gun in his hand. Prone, lying down, his head and arm barely above the asphalt, the man seemed in no condition to fight back. Yet he was making a valiant attempt.

  The man fired again. Who he was aiming at was uncertain, but regardless, Marty had no idea where the bullet ended up.

  Marty dropped again to the ground, cursing himself for his lack of vigilance, though he’d never been in a firefight with non-zombies. And zombies don’t fire back.

  Marty dropped the shotgun and aimed his handgun at the firing man’s handgun, and shot. Although missing its mark, the bullet hit the forearm, and the man cried out and dropped his gun. Marty got up, kneeling on one knee, and fired again. The man’s body jerked as the bullet hit him in the chest, his head and arm falling back to the asphalt.

  Still aiming his gun, Marty got up on his feet and walked slowly toward the grimacing man.

  Marty barely heard him say “kill me.” Marty pivoted behind him and saw two tiny figures running in the distance. He saw they still carried their shotguns.

  Jocelyn continued to point her own weapons in their direction. They could really have used those shotguns, but Marty understood why she couldn’t shoot anyone running away.

  Marty turned back to the man who wanted to die. “Where did you come from?”

  “If I tell you.” He grimaced again and paused. “Will you kill me?”

  “You have my word.”

  “I come from . . . a group of . . . survivalists. We’re a scout team.”

  “But you tried to rob us.”

  “That was Jeb’s idea . . . He’s gone rogue . . . I missed you on purpose . . . I should have stopped . . .” He trailed off, and soon Marty realized he had passed out. A pool of blood from between his legs was growing rapidly. The man was bleeding out.


  Not a bad way to go, all things considered, but Marty chose to shoot a round into his head.

  Jocelyn sat down, dizzy and on the verge of passing out. The pain of being shot was like nothing like she’d ever experienced. It felt like her whole body was on fire on the inside but mere seconds later, that fire was out.

  Instinctively, she could feel where every bullet was. There was one in her heart, one in her lung, one in her left calf, one in her right kidney, and two in her colon. Astonishingly, they were moving—moving toward her skin.

  She saw a lot of drying blood on her clothes, but she knew she had no wounds now, as they had all sealed up. Likewise, she sensed no internal hemorrhaging.

  And she felt a gentle hand on her shoulders. Marty.

  “How are you doing?” he asked.

  She groaned. “Other than a splitting headache and a little dizziness, I think I’m fine.”

  He grunted. “I reckon your healing power can’t cure headaches.”

  She thought about this and realized it was ironic. She laughed.

  “Oh, wait, this isn’t funny . . . Let me laugh even louder!” And then she did laugh louder. Marty joined in. Jocelyn supposed they both needed a good laugh in the face of their dire predicament. When the laughter died down, Jocelyn told him about the bullets moving.

  “Do you believe they’re worming their way out?” Marty asked.

  She pursed her lips and nodded.

  “Then we better wait till that’s done before we introduce you to the others.”

  “Why? Wouldn’t it be better if the others know the truth about my ability?”

  “I’m afraid of how Vin will react to something as unexpected as this. Better to ease him into it. When the time comes, you’ll show them like you showed me. Then we can tell them about this attack.”

  “All right, you know Vin, and I don’t. We’ll wait. But aren’t they expecting you back soon?”

  He grunted once again and nodded. “Yep. They probably expected me back a few hours ago. They must be fearing the worst. I’ll bet Vin is taking it out on Alexander for letting me go.”