Serial Killer Z

by Philip Harris

  I’d been sitting there for ten or fifteen minutes when I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. Someone was walking through the forest, picking their way between the trees toward the water. And they were on my side of the river.

  Chapter 3

  Temptation Calls

  Whoever it was, they hadn’t seen me yet. I ducked down behind the boulder, low enough that I was almost out of sight but still had a view of the bank.

  A few seconds later, a young man broke out of the trees and ran to the river’s edge. He threw himself down on the rocks, hard enough to make me flinch, and began scooping water into his mouth. His clothes, blue jeans and a T-shirt that had probably once been white, were ripped and covered in dirt. His hair was matted and clung to his head, and his face was cut. Blood from the wound had run down his cheek and neck, staining the T-shirt. He had no equipment. No backpack, canteen, or weapons.

  The man lapped hungrily at the water. He was trying to drink too quickly, and his body couldn’t keep up. He started coughing and spluttering so hard I thought he might vomit. But he didn’t, and as soon as he got himself under control again, he plunged his hands back into the river and continued drinking.

  As I watched him, a familiar coldness grew inside me—the stirring of the shadow. And with the shadow came insight. The man’s guilt hung off him as tattered strips of oily blackness. He wiped his face and left black smears across his cheek. He plunged his hands into the water again, and a black film spread across the surface. My throat turned dry, and it became hard to swallow. Sweat coated my hands.

  Eventually, the young man stopped drinking. He lay back on the rocks, one arm resting across his forehead. I could see his chest rising and falling, his breathing quick and heavy. The shadow sent a shudder rippling through me.

  The man was a hundred feet or so away and close to the tree line. It would be a simple matter to circle unseen through the forest until I was directly behind him. I could be on him before he knew I was there. It would be so easy. There was no one to stop me.

  The shadow rose up. Ice-cold tendrils weaved through my body like a dozen snakes. I felt something cold in my hand and looked down. It was my hunting knife, although I couldn’t remember how it got there. I blinked at it. The blade called to me. I raised it in front of my face. The sun glinted off its tip as I twisted it left and right. I imagined the young man, the knife pressed against the side of his throat. I saw it cut into his flesh, releasing a thin trickle of scarlet blood.

  I fought back, stifling the shadow’s urges. It was a risk I couldn’t take. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. I wish I could say my actions were motivated by some moral code—kitchen table ethics that had been drilled into me by a caring father. But my father had left us when I was six or seven, for good reason as far as I could tell. My motivations for not killing were purely selfish. The shadow was already deadening my awareness of the world around me. Giving in to its urges would leave me completely exposed.

  I forced myself to look away from the knife. And the young man. The shadow writhed. I pushed it down, driving it into the darkest recesses of my body. I’d find a way to quell the shadow without putting myself at risk.

  Inhaling deeply, I counted to four then put the knife back into the sheath on my belt. I grabbed the palm of my left hand with my right and squeezed. Long nails dug into the soft flesh. I focused on the pain, acknowledging it, letting it suffuse my whole body. The shadow retreated.

  When I let go of my hand, there was a semicircle of indentations in my flesh. I’d pressed hard enough to break the skin in a couple of places. My palm was smeared with blood.

  The young man was sitting up now. He was looking around as though he’d realized how exposed he was. A normal person, a good person, would have tried to help him. They’d wave to him, call him over, try to convince him they weren’t a threat and that the two of them would be safer traveling together. And they’d be right. A lone man traveling through the forest was an easy target—for the living or the dead. By the look of him he’d been on the run for some time, and it was a miracle that he hadn’t already fallen afoul of a predator of one form or another.

  But I wasn’t a good person. Not even close. He was better off alone, for both our sakes.

  The young man took another drink from the river then stood on shaky legs. He looked around, and I thought that maybe I’d been mistaken. Perhaps he did have some equipment after all. He was squinting as he peered left and right, and I wondered if he was nearsighted. Another reason for a good person to help him. I just hoped he’d choose to go in the direction that would lead him away from me.

  In the end, he did. I watched him make his way up the river. His progress was slow and unsteady on the rocky bank. He walked without paying the slightest bit of attention to the world around him. I had no idea how he’d survived this long. Maybe he’d been with someone until very recently. I watched after him even after he disappeared around a corner, trying and failing to feel some emotion.

  A loud crack from across the river broke the spell. It was probably just an old branch breaking or an animal. Maybe it was the bear and her cub coming back. I took it as a sign to move on. I refilled the water bottles from my pack and considered my options.

  Part of me wanted to stay with the river. Ease of movement and the abundance of food and water, not to mention the opportunity to bathe, made it a tempting option. But it was exposed. If I thought it was a good idea to travel alongside the water, so would other people. It might seem like it most of the time, but I wasn’t the only refugee wandering the forest. In the end, I compromised and headed up the inlet, following the path of the smaller river as it wound steadily north.

  The slope on this part of the mountain was fairly shallow, and I made good progress. As I walked, I gradually began to relax. My spirits rose. I’d beaten the shadow again, twice in one day. It had been gaining strength over the past few weeks as my nomadic lifestyle wore me down, but I’d shown myself that I could still resist. Eventually, I would need to sate its appetite, but that was a problem I could deal with later, on my own terms.

  About half a mile up the river, I spotted a wooden gateway on the opposite bank. Nature had camouflaged it well, and I almost walked right past it. The trail beyond was partially overgrown, still passable but clearly unused for some time. Lush green vines obscured the gateposts. A sign was attached to the top of the posts, but it was so overgrown with ivy that it took me some time to decipher the words carved into it.

  CAMP REDFERN

  I glanced up and down the river. The forest was quiet. I could afford a detour.

  Chapter 4

  Redfern

  I followed the trail for a couple of hundred yards but left it before I reached the camp’s entrance. Instead, I picked my way carefully between the trees until I could see the camp and then positioned myself behind some bushes that did a pretty good job of keeping me hidden. Then I waited.

  Camp Redfern looked deserted. Four wooden single-story cabins sat in a semicircle, two on each side of a fifth two-story building. A carved sign in the same style as the archway at the river hung above the bigger building’s door, declaring it to be THE LODGE. It was built on a raised wooden platform. Three steps led up to a walkway that ran along the front of the building and was home to two wooden chairs. I half expected John Wayne to come charging out, six-shooters blazing, cutting down zombies left and right as they chased him out of the lodge.

  A pair of objects shrouded in dusty black tarpaulins, and what looked like a generator, sat on one side of the lodge. A large stack of firewood was piled on the other. Beyond the generator were two small sheds. One had a large M painted on the door in white, the other a W.

  The main entrance to the camp was directly opposite my hiding place. A wide track led into the forest. The ground was dry and dusty but heavily rutted. Grass and weeds had begun to reclaim the track.

  A fire pit sat in the middle of the clearing in front of the buildings. The earth around it was
burned black. By the look of the lumps of charred wood lying in the pit, it had been used fairly recently. Four benches, each just three pieces of wood fixed together in a simple H shape, were arranged around the fire. A white plate sat on one of them, and another lay on the ground near the pit.

  A soft moan floated across the camp. It took me a few seconds to find the sound’s source because the zombie that had made it was lying on the ground on the opposite side of the fire pit.

  Its entire lower body was missing. All that remained were a few ragged, bloody scraps hanging from its waist. It was wearing overalls, blue and oil-stained. By the look of the trail it had left behind, the zombie had dragged itself along the track to get to the camp and had stopped just short of the fire pit. It moaned again, moving its head from side to side, and I wondered if it had somehow caught my scent. If it had, it would come for me. Flesh is food as far as the living dead are concerned.

  The creature let out another groan and struggled to raise its head. There was no way of knowing how long it had been in the camp. If there were people living there, they’d have surely killed the zombie if they’d seen it. Which meant either it hadn’t been there long, or the camp was unoccupied.

  I crouched in the forest and watched the lodge for signs of life until my legs started going numb. I shivered. The sun was going down, and pretty soon it’d be dark.

  The buildings still seemed devoid of life. The camp reminded me of a documentary on ghost towns of the Americas I’d watched a few months earlier, long before the outbreak had begun creating ghost towns of its own. Even the zombie had stopped trying to move and was lying on the ground, murmuring softly to itself.

  I looked at the forest around me. I usually spent my nights up a tree. It was the best way to avoid an encounter with the forest’s wildlife or any wandering undead. I’ve always intended to die in my sleep, but I’m trying to delay it for as long as possible. A few feet behind me there was a pine that looked climbable.

  My other option was to explore the lodge. If it was empty, there’d be a place to sleep. Maybe even clean sheets. A ripple of pleasure ran down my spine at the thought. I didn’t dare imagine a working shower. But the camp had obviously been occupied recently. I’d spent the last few weeks avoiding my fellow survivors as carefully as I avoided the dead. I should resist the temptation of the camp, move on. That shadow part of me disagreed. If there were people living here, it would deal with them.

  I spent another thirty minutes watching the lodge and battling with myself over the right course of action. Eventually, the growing darkness forced me to make a decision. I pushed my way back to the trail and walked into the camp.

  As soon as it saw me, the bisected zombie grew agitated and started dragging itself toward me. It moaned and ground its teeth together as though it had already ripped a chunk of meat from my calf. One of its eyes was missing. The other tracked me as I walked across the clearing.

  I removed my knife from its sheath. The zombie’s moans became louder and more insistent the closer I got. It strained toward me, mouth open. A ribbon of blackish drool rolled over its bottom lip and dripped to the ground. It stank—a mix of rancid meat, blood, and its own waste. Black bile leaked from its stomach.

  As I pulled the knife back, ready to plunge it into the zombie’s skull, the shadow stopped me. The sight of the mindless creature struggling to get at me had piqued its interest. There was a thread of something here, a fundamental truth that I’d missed so far.

  I stood transfixed as the zombie clawed at the ground, pulling itself closer, inch by inch. When it got too near, I took half a step backward. Like the carrot on the stick, I was always just out of reach. No matter how hard the zombie worked, the end result would always be failure and death. It seemed a perfect metaphor for life.

  The zombie let out a frustrated moan and stretched its neck toward me. Its fingers scraped across the ground, nails tearing free. Joints cracked, and flecks of blood splashed across the earth as it snapped and snarled. It strained to get close enough to sink its teeth into me, the tendons in its neck standing taut. The zombie pulled itself forward again. Its ribs caught on a rock and cracked. Pushing the shadow’s protestations away, I plunged the knife into the top of the zombie’s head. It broke through and sank into its brain.

  I pulled my knife free, and the zombie rolled sideways. It thrashed and writhed. Its arms flailed. Black stains splashed across the ground from its wounds. It screamed—a high-pitched wailing that had me covering my ears.

  I was afraid the sound would attract more of the dead, so I slammed the knife into the side of the thing’s neck and twisted. The blade cut through muscle and bone and into the corpse’s throat. The screaming stopped as its vocal cords were shredded. It twitched and convulsed for a few more seconds then lay still.

  I rolled the corpse over. Its one good eye stared lifelessly up into the sky, looking for all the world like a perfectly black marble. The logo over its heart labeled it as an employee of Jim’s Garage. A name was embroidered on the opposite side in white cursive letters—Eric. I wiped the knife on its overalls before putting it away.

  The wooden decking in front of the lodge was stained with a dark reddish-brown patch roughly the size of a human being. The stain was dry and faded in places as though it had been there long enough for rain to begin washing it away.

  I circled around the stain to the lodge’s entrance and stood in front of the door. It was already ajar but not enough for me to see inside. The building was silent. I counted to sixteen then tensed, ready to run if anything came lumbering out of the lodge toward me. I nudged the door with my foot. It creaked like something out of an old horror movie as it swung open, revealing a darkened room.

  With one final look around the camp, I walked inside.

  Chapter 5

  Blood and Dust

  There were light switches just inside the door, but I didn’t want to give away my arrival by turning them on. So, I waited until my eyes had adjusted to the gloom.

  I was in an open, lounge-like space. There were blinds over the windows that filtered out the setting sun and gave everything a murky beige tint. The air smelled of cut wood, but a darker scent lay beneath it. Something coppery and rotten.

  A fireplace sat at the right-hand end of the room. There was a metal cradle of neatly stacked firewood beside it, and a few scraps of burned wood lay in the bottom of the grate.

  Clustered around the fire were a long couch and two armchairs. Their oak frames were rough but well built. The cushions, though faded through use, were thick and looked comfortable. Even if there wasn’t a bed I could use, the couch would be a step up from a tree. A low coffee table sat between the chairs. Its modern metal-and-glass design contrasted awkwardly with the rustic styling of the rest of the furniture.

  A battered leather jacket was draped over the arm of one of the chairs. An equally well-worn paperback sat on the table. I didn’t recognize the author, but by the look of the cover it was a romance. That might be a good sign. Roving gangs of post-apocalyptic bandits are rarely fans of bodice rippers. At least not in the movies.

  A staircase led up to a balcony that overlooked the lounge. A set of five pictures hung on the wall beside the stairs. They were photographs, each one showing a group of three people standing in similar poses outside the lodge. To the left of the stairs there was another door. It was open, and through it I could see a long dining table flanked by chairs. There were no signs of movement.

  I closed my eyes and listened, trying to pick up any signs of life. All I could hear was the occasional chatter of birds outside. Unable to stall any longer, I walked as lightly as I could toward the dining room, running my fingers over the red cloth of the couch as I passed it.

  The book was indeed a romance, and the leather jacket was designed for a woman and was free of any kind of biker gang markings. Another good sign. In fact, everything seemed normal. It would have felt perfectly reasonable for a group of teenagers to walk past me into the lodge, fresh fro
m a hike through the forest, chattering about the owls or the bears or the eagles they’d seen. There were no signs of a struggle. No dismembered corpses. But the stain on the walkway outside, and the trace of decay in the air, told a different story.

  The dining room held more signs of everyday life. The long table was oak and set for four people, although there were six chairs. The plates and cutlery were covered in a fine film of dust.

  A notebook sat at the end of the table, open to a blank page. It was a diary. I flicked back to the beginning. It started a couple of weeks before the outbreak. Whoever had written it was already living in the lodge when the rest of the world went to hell. I skimmed through the entries, looking for mention of the pandemic, but there weren’t any. The last entry in the diary was eight days earlier. Up until that point, everything had apparently been normal. From the names mentioned in the diary, the camp had been occupied by at least half a dozen people—three counselors and three students. The adults and their charges had spent their days exploring the forest, learning new skills and bonding. There was nothing about the living dead.

  Another long oak table stood against the left-hand wall. It ran below three windows, one of which was strung with an impressive-looking cobweb. A selection of bowls stood on top of the table. All of them were empty. There was an old radio next to them, its antenna extended. Without thinking, I flicked the power switch and got the hiss of static. I flinched and turned the radio off.

  Someone had left a half-full coffee mug on the table. Its contents were beginning to take on a life of their own. A large frame containing a yellowing photograph of a group of eight teenagers and four adults hung on the opposite wall. The caption beneath the photograph read: Camp Redfern Opens, 1994.