The Sword of Saint Michael

by D C P Fox

  “That is for wasting so much ammunition.” He sighed. “And this is for not making sure they were dead.”

  The Führer shot McNulty in the skull. This time he collapsed for good.

  Marty dared not move, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Brien go two shades whiter.

  “Brien, you are now captain of the patrol unit. While an ambush was clever, these people would have arrived in town anyway, their van intact. We could have acquired all of them, plus their van, had you simply let them go. Do you understand me, Captain?”

  “Yes . . . yes.” Brien stammered, shaking. “Yes, mein Führer.”

  The Führer scrunched his face. “That’s disgusting.” Then his face softened and said, “But understandable.”

  Marty couldn’t help another peek back at Brien. A dark stain grew at his crotch and ran down his leg.

  “McNulty is lucky I didn’t shoot him once more for that mistake, and he’s certainly lucky that I put him out of any misery. Don’t you agree, Captain?”

  “Yes, Mein Führer.” Brien’s voice was shaky.

  “Good. See that you do a better job than Captain McNulty.”

  “I will, Mein Führer.”

  “Good.” The Führer turned to address the captives. “Now that that’s settled. Who may I address as your leader?”

  Alexander looked over at Marty, who nodded. “That would be me, Marty Scoggins, mein Führer” he said, his voice as shaky as Brien’s. Marty thought it was good not to be too calm in the presence of the Führer. He didn’t want to give the impression he had training in remaining calm in these situations. By calling himself “Scoggins,” Marty was reducing the chance of being recognized as the Beaver County Sheriff. He prayed Emily either didn’t pick up the lie, or was too afraid to contradict him. Emily said nothing, continuing her muffled whimpering.

  Alexander was shaking, probably from adrenaline, though perhaps out of sheer fear.

  If he wanted us dead, we’d be dead by now. He wants something from us, and we’d better give it to him.

  “I am in charge north of the river.”

  Marty glanced at a map of Bullhead City on the desk. North of the river “Aryan Syndicate” was written. Below the river on the west side was written a racial epithet referring to Hispanics, and on the east side was written a racial epithet referring to African-Americans. Marty wondered which area held the Hispanic blacks.

  “I am the Führer, and you will address me as Führer or mein Führer, but it seems you have been instructed as such already. When you talk with others, you will refer to me as ‘the Führer.’ Do you understand?”

  “Yes, mein Führer,” Marty answered.

  “Good. And how may you be of use to me?” the Führer asked.

  “My friend Alexander Williams, here, mein Führer, is a pharmacist, and I am his assistant.”

  Alexander let out a tiny gasp. Marty hoped Alexander could bluff his way as a pharmacist, as Alexander had boasted earlier of his pre-med education and internship.

  “My other friend, mein Führer, Janice Fernley, holding the child, is a nurse. We could all be very useful to you.”

  “You need only address me as Führer once at the start of the conversation, though I am happy to be called this at any later time . . . As to your skills, that’s very fortunate for me. Tell me, Slave Williams, what would you prescribe for chronic back pain?”

  Alexander took a deep breath and stopped shaking. “Ibuprofen or acetaminophen. If those didn’t work, oxycodone can be effective, but it will be a scarce resource compared to those two and therefore, precious to you. But with oxycodone can come nausea, so an anti-nausea medication like nabilone might be in order, or simply diphenhydramine, what you may know as Benadryl, as that is much more common. Other drugs like lorazepam and haloperidol can be effective against the nausea as well, but I’d reserve those for soldiers that have gone nuts, wigged out, or whatever you want to call battle fatigue, PTSD, or even psychosis.”

  The Führer smiled, and Alexander seemed to relax a little. Marty felt Alexander had done an admirable job. Marty risked a peek at the clock on the wall behind the Führer. It read 5:45. If it was accurate, the sun would set in around an hour and a half.

  Now the Führer addressed Marty. “And what is it you do as his assistant?”

  “I’ve worked with Alexander for long enough that I’ve picked up a lot. My main useful responsibility is inventory, but as I said, I’ve picked up a lot. And if you were to put him in charge of a pharmacy, he could teach me more of what he knows, and then you’d have some . . . redundancy . . . in case something were to happen to him.”

  Marty hoped to sell himself to the Führer as a check against Alexander becoming too powerful. It seemed to have worked as the Führer nodded and addressed Janice.

  “Ms. Fernley, how would you treat a GSW?”

  C’mon Janice, you can do this.

  “Contrary to popular belief, on the battlefield the bullet should be left in.”

  Great. She probably knows this enough that she doesn’t have to over think it and get all nervous.

  “The heat from the bullet is self-sterilizing. The important thing is to stop or lessen the bleeding with direct pressure, applying stitches if necessary. You should treat the wound with some kind of sterilizer, like iodine, or antibiotics, though you may wish to save those for when you actually see some infection. Put a gauze dressing on, requiring some cotton and tape, and change it when it gets soaked, as often as needed.”

  It amazed Marty how calm and collected Janice was.

  “And when should we take the bullet out?” he asked.

  Marty felt a blast of warm air come from the duct above him. So they even have heat.

  “Probably never. If the infection or inflammation is serious and persists and gets worse, and the person is valuable enough to you, perhaps we should risk it since the patient might die otherwise.”

  “Okay.” He gave a thin smile. “I’ve heard enough. You are now slaves. You must do as you’re told by non-slaves, unless that interferes with direct orders or your duties. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” the three of them answered. Marty was looking downward when he said it.

  “You will be addressed and address each other with the title Slave when in the presence of non-slaves. When alone together, you can call each other whatever you want. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” Marty continued to look downward at the tile floor with dried blood on it.

  “Good. Slave Scoggins and Slave Williams, I will assign you to the pharmacy, where you will assist Colonel Lockett with dispensing medication. You will report there first thing in the morning. Slave Fernley, I will assign you on a roving basis, but your base of operations will be Bullhead City Hospital. That will be your day job, and you will also report there first thing in the morning. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Marty and Alexander said in unison.

  But Janice said, “Day job? You mean I have another job?”

  The Führer smiled. “I will assign you to the women’s motel across the road. The sign reads ‘National Inn.’ There you will perform your evening’s duties . . . but not tonight. You are filthy. You will need the time to clean yourself up.”

  To Marty it was obvious what those duties were. He tried not to act revolted. Instead he fixed his gaze at the fluorescent lighting above. Although the building had been dark, the Führer, it seemed, had the luxury of light.

  “What about Emily?” Janice asked defiantly. She got it. She was brave in the face of possible rape.

  “The child? She can be your responsibility if you want. She can live with you.”

  “But what about when I perform my . . . duties?” Janice asked.

  “What about that?”

  “Where would Emily go during . . . ?”

  “I suspect she’ll be with you. I don’t think you want to trust her to someone else.”

  Janice opened her mouth, hesitated, and said, “Yes, mein Führer.”

/>   The Führer addressed Brien. “Captain, assign them to rooms and escort them there. Slave Scoggins and Slave Williams will reside in the Vacation Inn with my Elite Guard. I wish to keep an eye on them. In the morning, you will escort them to branding, and then the men to the pharmacy, and the woman and child to the hospital. You will be branded your new rank as well. Then you may leave to scout and patrol.”

  “Yes, mein Führer.”

  “And make sure that they be given proper Slave attire.”

  “Yes, mein Führer.”

  “Good . . . and one more thing. Slave Scoggins, do you know why everyone disappeared?”

  Marty, Alexander, and Janice all looked at each other with expressions of alarm. Marty knew if this guy didn’t already know, he may not believe it, and thought of a good, truthful answer. “Everyone got infected with the Crazies’ disease, mein Führer. We believe they all fled to a population source, like Colorado Springs or Denver.”

  The Führer nodded and seemed to contemplate this while tapping his hand a few times on his desk.

  “Slave Williams,” the Führer said, “how do you think the disease spreads?”

  “They kill their victims, then they eat their brains. The victim comes back to life in several seconds and turns into a Crazy, as you call them. Those Crazies create Crazies of their own, who create more Crazies, and so on.”

  “What do you call them?”

  “Zombies.”

  “I see.”

  Marty realized he didn’t understand the gravity of the situation. “And one more thing, mein Führer,” Marty said. “Only multiple shotgun blasts to the head can kill them, and we believe they will come back here.”

  “Really? So you suggest we issue as many shotguns as possible?”

  “Yes, and shoot the Crazies on sight. You’ll know them from the pustules, the sores, on their bodies.”

  “Good. I will inform The General at once. Captain, who would you like to promote to Corporal?”

  “Private Laver, mein Führer.”

  “Very well.” The Führer spent about a minute scribbling something on a piece of paper, obscuring it so no one else could see, and handed it to Brien. “This is your proof of order. You and your men may escort them, Captain, to their motels. Make sure someone feeds them dinner. After that, you may retire for the evening and get out of those soiled pants.” He turned his head to the corpse in the room. “I am confident none of you will disappoint me . . .”

  The sun was behind the mountains once Alexander and the others emerged from the school. Alexander, shell-shocked from McNulty’s brutal murder, saw the color in Brien’s face had not come back. Besides the guards, McNulty’s men—now Brien’s—waited outside. One man laughed and pointed at Brien’s crotch. Soon the rest of his men joined in the laugher, and then the guards. Brien reached for his gun and shoved it in the face of the pointing man who stopped laughing, widened his eyes, and showed genuine fear.

  “McNulty is dead,” Brien said.

  As they realized what was happening, the laughter died down, and now the guards raised their weapons—an assortment of guns—at Brien.

  “I am your new Captain. The Führer killed McNulty,” Brien continued, “for stupidity. Anyone else want to be stupid?”

  “No, Sir,” pointing-man said.

  “Anyone else?” Brien did not appear to care about the guards surrounding them.

  His men kept silent, though two of them grinned.

  “Good.” Brien put his gun back in his holster. The guards relaxed their weapons. Brien turned to one of his men—the one Alexander noticed laughed less heartily. “Laver, you are now Corporal. We are all to escort these slaves to their new quarters. Understand?”

  They all nodded.

  The National Inn, across the street from the school, was a two-story motel with outside room doors. Janice held Emily’s hand as the group approached the motel. Emily’s face was a mess of bloodshot eyes, tears, and snot, though Janice had done the best she could to wipe her face with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. She looked back at the school at the bodies arranged about the lawn and dreaded the view they’d have from the inn, although she dreaded her “duties” there far more. Many of the doors were open and ajar, maybe from the zombies bashing the doors in. Brien knocked on door 101, and an annoyed woman with a butch haircut wearing prisoner smocks emerged.

  “You know the rules, Corporal. Not until dark.” Her expression softened into pity as she looked at Janice and Emily. “A child?” She raised her voice. “You bring me a child?”

  “The Führer’s orders, Ms. Coward. She is not to be touched.” That last part was not the Führer’s orders, but Janice was not about to contradict him about that.

  “I have no rooms left with the doors repaired.”

  “Then they’ll have a drafty night.”

  “Shit.” Coward addressed Janice. “And your names are?”

  “I’m Janice, and this is Emily.”

  Coward knelt down to meet Emily’s eyes. “Emily, I will give you a nice room to sleep in tonight, ok?”

  Emily nodded and snuffled her nose.

  “All right, let’s go.”

  “Wait,” Marty said. “We want to hug them goodbye.”

  Coward shrugged at Brien, who nodded.

  Marty gave Emily a gentle hug. “We’ll see you in the morning, ok Emily?”

  “Ok,” Emily said.

  While Alexander gave Emily his hug, Marty gave Janice a big bear hug, and whispered in her ear. “We’ll escape before tomorrow night. I promise.”

  Brien and his men escorted Marty and Alexander two blocks east to the Vacation Inn, passing a Colorado Park Market supermarket on the same side of the road. In fact, the supermarket was across a side road from the motel. The door to the room assigned to the men was also ajar.

  Once inside, they blocked the door shut with a chair.

  “The zombies must have canvassed the entire town,” Alexander said. “Bashed down every door they could find. I saw them do it in my hotel that day.”

  “I told Janice we’d escape tomorrow,” Marty said.

  Alexander shrugged. “With no weapons or food, we won’t last long.”

  “You don’t have to come. But I can’t let Janice be—”

  “Oh, I’ll come.” Alexander grinned. “With someone as smart as me, you might just survive.”

  Marty stifled a laugh at that. Alexander didn’t stifle his.

  “But, seriously,” Alexander said. “How can we possibly escape?”

  “I’m not afraid to die in this hell-hole of a world. And I don’t think you are, either. And as long as we’re not afraid to die, we just might escape.”

  “Or die trying.”

  “Exactly.”

  Emily lay in bed, snuggling Janice. It was so cold, and she struggled to stay warm under the blankets, but she had trouble breathing when her head wasn’t outside the blanket. And her arm itched. When she scratched it, Ms. Fernley said, “Baby, don’t scratch that.”

  “But it itches.”

  “Remember, you want no one to know you’ve been bitten, and scratching will only make it worse.”

  “Ms. Fernley?”

  “Honey, by now I’d rather you call me Janice. Can you do that? Call me Janice?”

  “Yes . . . um . . . Janice. Does this mean we’re friends?”

  Janice hugged her a little tighter. Emily liked that.

  “Yes, baby, yes it does.”

  “Janice . . . are we going to die?”

  “No, honey. You should try not to worry about such things.”

  Emily wondered how she could try not to worry. “Are we going to become zombies, then?”

  Janice paused. “No, honey, of course not. We’re going to be fine.”

  But Emily knew she was lying. She felt sick to her stomach. Her head hurt.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Day Nine

  Jocelyn awoke face-down on the road. She opened her eyes in diffuse light, turned her head, and
pushed herself up, the asphalt warm on her hands, the wind chilly on her arms. The sun was well behind the crest of the mountains to the West, with the three-quarters-full moon just above the mountains to the East. And to the East, Vin lay face down next to the van peppered with bullet holes. She looked in all directions, and everything appeared as it did when she had looked at her body from her Inner Temple, with no one except Vin in sight.

  Dusk had set in, and soon it would become dark, with only the light of the moon to see by.

  While waiting for herself to recover, watching the scene from her Inner Temple frustrated her because she couldn’t do anything for Vin. But now she could, and, ignoring the cold and the itch as the bullets protruded out her skin, she hurried over to his body.

  Dried blood stained the asphalt to the side of his abdomen. She turned him over, which took more strength than she expected. His eyes were closed and she was glad she didn’t have to deal with any glassy look. While his wound on the side below his rib cage did not actively bleed, when she lifted his sweatshirt, she saw a large amount of bruising surrounding the wound. Plus, blood leaked out of the corner of his mouth. All this led her to conclude he bled internally.

  She could do little for him. Sadness overwhelmed her. Could she even get him into the van? He must weigh over 200 pounds. And then what? Find a hospital not overrun by draugar? Did such a place exist? Would they be able to treat him in Colorado Springs? That seemed his only hope.

  He groaned.

  “Vin, can you hear me?”

  He nodded, smacking his bloody lips. “I’m not going to make it.” He winced. “Am I?”

  She grabbed his hand. He squeezed weakly. “There’s hope if I can get you in the van.”

  He tried to pick himself up, but he only got two inches above the ground before he collapsed. “I can’t make it.” He opened his eyes. “I must have passed out. Where are the others?”

  “Gone. The marauders took them.”

  He nodded. “At least they didn’t kill us.” He laid back his head. “But I’m not going anywhere.”