by Arthur Stone
But not all was lost. There was still one more infected with a spore sac on his head. He was certain he’d get lucky with that one.
Boiler looked over the edge and nearly fell in surprise. That big cat was there, perched by the still-trembling corpse, ferociously trying to chew something. The zombie’s spore sac was gutted. Oh no. Boiler spoke, barely restraining himself from yelling. “Hey you, what you got there?”
The cat raised his head, showing Boiler his answer: he was clamping the greenish sporegrape the man needed so badly in his teeth. It was too big for him to swallow whole, so he was attempting to chew it.
“Give me that! You fuzzy oversized crow. Give that back!”
In his increasingly distant past life, he had loved cats, but now he clambered down from the shed with every intention of seizing his prize by any means necessary. The intelligent animal realized the man was unlikely to come pet him and reward him for stealing, so he raced off around the corner, spore still gripped in his mouth. Boiler could do little more than shake a threatening first and then examine the leftovers of the spore sac, now hacked to shreds by his weapons and the cat’s claws. As he expected, there was nothing. That gray bastard had stolen the only spore, leaving Boiler’s hands emptier than a new zombie.
His stomach heaved in increasing pain, his nausea was unrelenting, and his perception of color had begun to warp. Now and then, strong dizzy spells assaulted his balance. All symptoms of a vital need for a flask of lifejuice.
There was no way he’d catch that animal. Even with a healthy leg, nabbing a quick cat was quite a trick. He’d have to take his loss in stride and figure something else out, which meant another fight, with another unpredictable outcome. At least he had some experience by now. The beasts were quick and tenacious, but as long as he didn’t run into a raffler or worse, he could repeat the same tactic: take the high ground and assail the climbing enemy with a string of deadly attacks.
He saw movement along the edge of his vision. He turned, and quietly groaned in self-pity. Speak of the devil. A stronger player had joined the enemy team. It looked much like the raffler he had seen yesterday, with its ugly swollen jaw, massive flat claws jutting out of twisted, knobby fingers, and nothing but sparse tufts of greasy hair clinging to its head. No clothing had survived the transition save one single boot, and its revolting gray skin was taut with asymmetrical, overgrown muscles. The monster had just seen Boiler and was assessing its prospects of a successful hunt, perched on top of the greenhouse but as of yet making no move to attack. All that lay between them was eighty feet of open ground and a single tall wooden fence. For a quick, clever creature strong enough to rip the roofs off cars with its bare hands, the fence might as well have been a shallow speed bump.
Boiler took off as fast as he could in the direction of the building where the cat had disappeared, the one made of red brick. He had no intention nor chance of trying to escape his hunter like the cat had escaped him. He must get inside and use the complex layout of the place to earn himself a breather. Run faster, dammit! He had to ignore the pain slicing up into his thigh, without losing any time by looking back. Every millisecond was priceless.
The fence crashed to the earth behind him. With no particular effort, the monster had smashed it instead of jumping over.
Boiler leaped into the house and managed to pull the outer door shut. It was an obstacle, however small. The second was made of strong timber. He drove his crowbar into a gap in the wood and propped the door, angling the tool against the floor. God only knew what this creature could do, but at least it would lose a few seconds breaking in.
As he sped into the room on the opposite side of the house, he heard the mutant crash into the entryway and then stop, unable to pass the wooden obstacle without taking some time. He threw open the window and jumped out onto the sill, jolting his wound with such force that he cried out, then ran to the gate limping like a three-legged dog. He had barely slipped past when the beast smashed through the double-layer glass window and crashed to the flowerbed below. This is it, then. A few feet lay between him and his gravedigger, with nowhere to hide. He would never make it to the next house in time.
Boiler growled, a beast cornered, and readied his stance with his ax poised to strike. If he was to end up a heap of gnawed bones, he’d go out snarling and fighting to the last.
The mutant cleared the final fence in one leap, when a wild inhuman scream rent the air. Involuntarily, Boiler turned to face it, finding Charcoal with his back arched, standing by a rudimentary wooden bench and howling at the beast with surprising volume.
Who did this animal think he was? Had he gone crazy? Was he hallucinating that it was mating season and the two of them were a couple of cute female felines battling for his attention?
The raffler, overjoyed, lost all interest in Boiler and charged the gray animal. The cat shut up, scrambled nimbly up a tree, and leaped over the fence as the mutant followed, vanishing from sight. Boiler heard it crash along, flattening bushes and scattering piles junk. The man was already moving, of course, and heard all this on the go. He didn’t know how long the cat would distract the zombie, but he knew what would happen when it caught him or decided to abandon the chase. Its furry appetizer devoured, it would proceed on to the main course of limp biped.
Should he run back for his bicycle? It was a quarter of a mile from here, and with multiple fences barring the way. He doubted he had that much of a head start and wracked his brain for a better idea. He could try the same trick as yesterday: set a trap for the beast. There were no factory chimneys or heavy crowbars around, but there was the grain elevator’s massive tower and the convenient metal ladders running up its side. He’d climb up to the top. That would cut the beast’s speed and strength advantages, evening the odds—at least a bit.
Boiler rounded a corner and ran straight into a zombie heading to the source of all the noise. The ghoul stopped abruptly, growled, and attacked. But Boiler’s rush of adrenaline let him easily dodge the outstretched flesh-seeking hands, crouch without stopping, and slash the zombie’s knee to collapse.
“Get in line, chump, you’re far from the first I’ve killed,” he shouted.
Well, that was easy. Hopefully the fight with that raffler would go just as smoothly. Wait, what is that? A tall concrete wall topped with barbed wire had been raised around the grain elevator. Probably from before the reset, built to protect the valuable building from vandalism. He’d never be able to clear that wall quickly, and didn’t feel like trying to clear it at all. He’d had his fill of sharp metal things for today. The gates were to his left, but over a hundred feet away. They were closed—but the small entry door for people seemed open. A small detour, but still too much time lost.
He was only a dozen steps away when a vicious growl from behind yanked his gaze backwards. The beast, no longer following the cat, was leaping over the tall brick fence to resume its quest for some fresh Boiler.
In under twenty seconds, it would reach him, not nearly enough time for him to get to the ladder. He’d have to deal more of a disadvantage. But there was still time to find a position that could shrink that disadvantage, at least a little.
Drawing energy from some deep, hitherto unknown internal reserve, he charged at the door like a rock out of a slingshot, slammed it behind him, and slid the heavy bolt lock closed. The door was thick. No claws could pry it off like a cheap car lid—the beast would need a more serious approach.
Where to now? A transformer box stood nearby, but it was miserable. A poor choice for a tomb. A hangar with red gates lay just beyond a stretch of pavement, and the gate closest to him was open. There. That’s my destination. It was in no better shape than the transformer box, but at least it’d be a whole mausoleum, not just a tiny tomb.
Rattling noises behind him, combined with the beast growling in displeasure, brought him up to speed on current events. The monster had decided to forego the iron gate altogether and climb over, but the wall was high, with a nasty crown of b
arbed wire. Giving me a little bit more time.
When he entered the hangar, he discovered an aging truck and a cart carrying a massive compressor by the wall just left of the gate. His inner well of strength had not dried up yet, and despite the unimaginable weight of the thing, he threw his shoulder against the cart and was surprised to find he could roll it. Adrenaline was a mighty thing.
Of course, rolling this thing up to block the gate would be his final moronic mistake, considering the gate opened outward. His mind hadn’t gone yet, though—he pulled the cart’s cable and hooked it to the latch on the door. Now the door would only open part way.
This hindrance was a better plan than bolting the door. Even if the mutant failed to smash through, it could easily get inside some other way. The hangar was lined with narrow, dirty windows, and easy to climb. His action would buy him a few seconds, at least.
In open combat, he had no chance. But if the raffler squeezed into a narrow gap, thus enclosing its own position, at least he had options. Some sort of advantage.
Suddenly the door was struck with such force that the air filled with dust. The beast heaved it towards itself, but it only opened a little, then stopped, the weight of the attached cart anchoring it. The raffler slammed the door back again and again. The compressor cart moved reluctantly, a few inches at a time. Thankfully, it was positioned sideways, so its wheels hindered rather than assisted its movement.
The gap was now just under a foot wide. There. The monster began to push its way through. Time to make its life miserable. Taking careful aim, Boiler struck the beast in the fingers grabbing the edge of the door. It was hard to score a good hit at this angle, but his weapon managed to take off a couple of fingertips and bite into another. The raffler roared with rage and lunged in with its uninjured arm, its claws barely missing Boiler’s face. He swung violently at the outstretched arm. The blade dug into the creature’s palm like a piece of wood, and blood began flowing freely.
The monster jerked back, but here it fell prey to its own enthusiasm for fresh meat. The gap was too narrow for its body, and it was unable to pull out immediately. Boiler kept striking it with his ax, causing it to wriggle in confusion and extend its own captivity.
The creature tried to grab the taught cable for leverage, but a second later that forearm was hanging from its elbow by a sole tendon, twisting in circles after yet another ax blow. The other arm was in bad shape, too, as was the corresponding shoulder, which Boiler subjected to his strongest attack. The beast’s neck was a more vital target, but it was too far away, so he went for what he could reach.
He swung again and again, shattering bones and transposing the mutant’s roar into an unbearable squeal of pain. At last the raffler pulled itself free of its constriction and fell on its back. Now its shoulder was out of reach, so Boiler crouched low and slammed his ax into its foot. It was still wearing the filthy boot, its clawed toes poking out the front. Blood filled the footwear and spurted in all directions. The monster jerked its leg away and pushed itself back, crawling a few paces out of reach. It moved as if its shoulder blades had become new limbs, so anxious was it to escape its deadly prey.
“I’m not finished with you!”
Boiler wasn’t about to repeat his enemy’s mistake and get stuck in the gap. He closed the gate, loosening the strained cable, unclipped the loop, and pushed the door open wide. By that point, the pavement was covered in dark spots, but the monster was nowhere to be seen. Boiler followed the trail. It had exited the gate, not bothering to close it.
It must have been smart enough to open the bolt. Interesting. Still Boiler limped after it, twirling his ax in the air. The creature was badly maimed, its arms unusable and one of its feet badly damaged, and losing this much blood couldn’t be good, even for a zombie beast.
Boiler hopped out onto the road and looked around. The bastard raffler had made it to one of the buildings and taken cover inside. It still moved with some speed, so its foot must not be as injured as the man had hoped. He saw someone else in his path, though. That same zombie he had so impressively crippled on the way here still dreamed of enjoying some bearded Boiler tartare. The ligaments of his knee were hurt so badly that he couldn’t walk, but he crawled along at a decent pace.
He saw Boiler and growled in satisfaction at locating his meal. This was just a stupid jumper, not a raffler. It simply had no concept that it was outclassed. He hobbled over and dealt it an ax blow to the head, once again crouching as he walked. A funeral dirge of skullcrunching sounds echoed through the crop fields as the zombie ceased its growling and crawling, its final movements an awkward leg dance accompanying the last music of its life. The same dance macabre Boiler had noticed before from these weaklings.
He checked his surroundings. No threats were visible. Grabbing his knife, he went for the spore sac. But before he made his first cut, a shot rang out nearby, and a bullet ripped through the zombie’s bloody jacket and struck the pavement a few feet away, digging a small, pale pothole. The unsuccessful snipe came from the residential building the raffler had retreated into just a minute ago. He doubted the mutant had found time to acquire a rifle—in fact, he doubted the things could wield any weapons at all. So Boiler had another adversary here, an even more perilous one: a human.
The wall was too long for him to run back and away from the shooter. He had to push forward, despite the shooter’s eye on him. If the man couldn’t hit a target standing still, he’d likely miss a moving one.
Boiler charged for the door the beast had entered. He could disappear behind it and then move unseen by the sniper, or try to catch the bastard keeping him from reaching his hard-fought spores—all too common a tale in this place, it seemed.
Another shot hit the concrete wall, but the great partition barely noticed the impact. It was likely a relatively diminuitive rifle, but still nothing to joke about. With a little skill, luck, or both, you could tackle a big animal with one of those, and a human was small game.
Yet another shot blew by the hair on the back of his head and struck the wall. The invisible would-be murderer had missed him by little more than an inch.
The door was close now, and the rate of fire slow. The shooter had one more chance. Come on, shooter. Miss! Miss! Miss!, Boiler chanted in his head.
No shot followed. Instead, a heartrending cry split the air, followed by a satisfied growl. It was a loud, ugly roar, not like the modest moanings of the empties and jumpers. That must have been the raffler. His growls at Boiler a minute before encountering his barnside Ax-pocalypse had sounded very much like that.
And his two adversaries had been housemates, after all, an arrangement doomed to fail sooner or later.
The bush that grew just beyond the mesh fence shuttered twice, accompanied by shotgun blasts. Another cry. One of torment, terror, and utter despair. The mutant, meanwhile, was quiet.
Perhaps it still remembered its mom’s lesson not to talk with its mouth full.
Boiler had slowed to a near halt by the door, but now he rushed to the scene. If he understood what was happening, any surviving guns would not be aimed at him. Running headlong into a fight between a rifleman and a mutant carried a high degree of risk, to be sure. Or, better, a high degree of stupidity. But Boiler knew his escalating pains and confusion could only be cured by something inside that beast. To run away was to suffer a fate worse than death. His last energy reserves were depleted, and soon his body would begin shutting down.
Yet finishing off an infected this strong would not be easy to do, even for a healthy, well-rested man. That didn’t matter. This was his only chance.
He grabbed the fence corner and scrambled up on top of it, keeping his gaze on that lilac bush. Save the satisfied grumbling, everything was quiet, and no one at all was visible. He jumped down, this time holding in his cry of pain, raised his ax, and commenced circling the house.
There it was, the mutant. It was hiding around a corner, busy tearing juicy neck muscle from the motionless shotgunner. Gettin
g to the meat was a chore since the man was outfitted with camo pants, a thick leather jacket trimmed with green scraps of fabric, quality knee and elbow pads, high-topped shoes, and a plastic helmet disguised with fake branches. This guy had taken his job seriously, for all the good it had done him. His spine was visible from the gaping wound the beast had inflicted.
The raffler raised its head, sensing Boiler’s presence, and growled menacingly. It was Crippled, the beast couldn’t use its arms, so it had to fight with its teeth. The shooter must have fatally ignored his rear, never considering that the perilous monster could be on him so quickly. Boiler felt like luck had finally come his way. The monster’s encounter with the shooter had prevented it from finally escaping.
It probably hadn’t planned to run at all. The beast must have hidden in the bushes, waiting to ambush its pursuer, hoping that Boiler would follow it. But then the sound of the shot had drawn its attention, enticing it to abandon its plans and go hunting. Apparently its grudge against Boiler wasn’t strong enough for it to pass up an easy meal.
Boiler flashed his teeth, clenched his ax, clutched his bad leg, and rushed at the mutant ghoul. But the beast wasn’t about to fight him. With a threatening growl it lunged away, took a few steps back, and ultimately decided to retreat once more, springing over the fence into the next yard as it commenced a second withdrawal, as slow as the last.
Boiler kept his ax honed on the body as he passed through the lilac bush. The shooter had taken up here and began the conflict that his death had ended so quickly. Boiler picked up the hastily-dropped rifle lying near the man’s small backpack and examined it. A small-bore rifle, as he expected. A simple one-shot gun, but as reliable a weapon as a hammer. A handmade silencer was attached to the barrel, covered with green and gray camo paint. The bolt was drawn back. So the raffler attacked just as the man was reloading.
