by Karpa, Boris
Kneeling at the bottom of the shallow was a young man, perhaps a year or two older than Arthur himself, stripped down to a set of boxer underwear, his hands bound behind his back with a narrow loop of white plastic. Bruises and scratches 'decorated' his back and sides – some fresh, others older.
And of course, towering over the youth's slender form was the very same drillmaster from Serenity Bay. Arthur winced reflexively as he saw the man's broad, stocky form towering over his victim. The drillmaster's light-brown uniform was clean and impeccable – as if the past six months hadn't happened at all. His broad-brimmed hat sat perfectly on his head. His heavy boots were polished. On his belt hung a small police revolver, a flashlight, a set of handcuffs, a knife and a bright, polished brass badge. But the true symbol of his authority remained in his upraised hand.
The long, black truncheon descended with a slapping sound, striking the victim's shoulder blade. The youth hissed, drawing air through his teeth. Facing the ground, he could not see Martin and Arthur. He could see nothing but a pair of black, polished boots
- "Do you know how a man is kicked to death?" – the drillmaster asked. He was clearly too concentrated on his task to see his new audience. The prostrate man did not answer, and then one of the boots moved – snapped forward like an attacking snake, stinging the victim's naked shoulder. – "I bet you don't, you little malcontent." – the drillmaster said, walking around the whimpering, injured body – "You see, this" – he kicked again, this time striking the stomach, causing the boy to flatten himself on the sand – "This isn't how it is done. No, the proper way of kicking a man to death is not really even a kicking at all. Get up."
The young man didn't budge. "Get up, or I will actually show you how a man is kicked to death. Really it's better called a stomping. You step on the guy.» – the drillmaster's foot darted out again. This time he did not kick – he simply stepped viciously on his victim's shoulder, smashing him into the sand, face-first. «Trample him. Gravity helps you along. The most lethal way is to hop onto his head, do a couple of jumps..."
The young man struggled to get up. With his hands tied behind his back, it would be a difficult proposition even from someone who hadn't been beaten so roundly. Twitching like a worm on the sand, he finally managed into a semi-kneeling position, his forehead rested against the sand."
- "Good." – mocked the drillmaster. With a terrible snapping sound, the baton descended onto the young man's elbow.
This was what caused the screams, Arthur realized. Now the naked man was screaming again, howling like an injured animal. He was rapidly becoming one – bruised and hurt all over, with any desire and hope that might have been left in his body gradually replaced with the single desire and hope that the man would just stop tormenting him.
- "Don't move." – Martin said.
For a brief instant time seemed to stop. Martin stood next to the drillmaster like the character of an action film, his legs planted firmly into the ground in a wide stance, his right arm extended, nearly poking his pistol into the drillmaster's face. He had not bothered to switch on the small laser pointer that was attached under the gun's barrel. At this range it would be impossible to miss. All he needed to do was pull the trigger.
The drillmaster appeared stunned, staring at the barrel of the .45 pistol that had appeared out of nowhere right next to his face. He seemed frozen, like a mosquito in amber, his raised hand still clutching his truncheon.
- "Don't move." – Martin repeated – "Drop the baton."
And then the drillmaster moved. It was a brief movement – almost impossible to spot with the naked eye if you weren't prepared for it. Martin wasn't. The drillmaster turned with his entire torso, swiveling like a tank turret. For the brief second that counted, his head moved out of the line of fire – and the black rubber truncheon slammed into Martin's hand. His fingers let go in an instant – the snapping sound with which rubber met bone was painful to even hear.
One of the drillmaster's feet moved as if it had a life of its own, the heavy boot simply entering the former English teacher's groin. Martin gasped, taking a step backwards from the mighty kick, the air knocked out of him in a single blow.
The drillmaster asked no questions. He simply exploded forward in a storm of violence, the baton dropping on Martin's head, his neck, his shoulders in a storm of blows. The advisor raised his right arm to shield his head – and the truncheon struck his elbow with sadistic precision. The drillmaster stabbed to his belly with the truncheon. Martin groaned – but clearly this wasn't the effect his opponent was seeking. His face contorting with a mask of fury and frustration, he stabbed again, this time into the face. He was at clinch range now, raining down blow after blow – arms, legs, head, neck, face...
Martin burst forward, grabbing the drillmaster's wrists. In the brief window of opportunity, headbutted his opponent. One! The drillmaster's head was thrown backwards, blood spurting from his nose, his hat flying off into the sand. Two! Stunned, the drillmaster stumbled backwards. Three! Martin kicked him in the belly. The baton moved down to meet Martin's knee . There was a loud snapping noise, but nothing happened – the baton only slid off the black knee pad .
Knee pads. Both Martin and Arthur wore them, to protect from shambler bites. These – and the black, heavy biker jacket that Martin was wearing – had softened the baton blows somewhat. This, Arthur now realized, was why the advisor was still conscious.
The drillmaster dove like a professional fencer, his baton moving at such a speed it was difficult to follow. It seemed that it had only brushed Martin's leg, just below the knee – but that clearly wasn't the case – the advisor stumbled instantly, dropping to one knee.
This was precisely what the drillmaster wanted. He slammed the truncheon's handle into the top of Martin's skull. Then, before his opponent even could react, he yanked Martin's head downwards, raising his knee to meet the advisor's face. Now, blood flowed down from Martin's nose as well – and the drillmaster repeated his attack, mashing his knee into Martin's face again and again. He stepped back – and Martin fell before him, as if prostrating himself before the victor.
Martin struggled for a moment, attempting to get up – but then the boot came up again, kicking him straight in the chest, and he fell onto the sand once more.
- "I win." – the drillmaster sneered looking down at Martin. He twirled the baton in his hand, preparing to deliver another blow. It was almost as if he wasn't aware that he had an audience at all.
- "I don't think you do." – Arthur replied.
- "You..." – the drillmaster gasped like a fish out of water. The youth was standing a dozen yards away, up the slope of the shallow, with his rifle's stock already nested comfortably in his shoulder. Worse yet, the drillmaster recognized him. "You... you animal!" – he gasped as the realization began to dawn on him. He stumbled backwards, trying to get away from the threat – the worst possible decision, dictated merely by the fear he had of this very moment – one of his students at Serenity Bay, standing now before him armed with a rifle.
The crosshairs of Arthur's scope had been centered on the man's belt buckle. It was a simple brass buckle and a simple belt. Nothing on it could even slow down Arthur's rifle bullets, much less stop them. Arthur said:
- "I think Martin has won this match," – said Arthur and pulled the trigger. The rifle moved in his hands slightly as it fired. The first round hit its target at the belt buckle, penetrating the leather easily to bury itself in the drillmaster's lower belly – and the bolt was already traveling forward, chambering the next round. Arthur kept his finger on the trigger, letting the rifle's muzzle climb with the recoil, placing round after round into the drillmaster's stomach and chest. Finally, two rounds shattered the man's jaw and punched a hole in his forehead. For a second, the body remained upright and then fell down, face first.
"Well, that..." – Martin coughed as he struggled to his feet – "that certainly resolves the question of whom I want to referee any chess matches I end up p
laying in the future." – he was almost upright when the next coughing fit caused him to double over, nearly falling down again. – "And it isn't you, Arthur. Wouldn't want you shooting my opponents at the end of the match to declare victory."
Arthur smirked. – "I'll remember you said that next time you run into a guy with a rubber baton."
- "Right." – Martin shrugged. – "Well, we need to take care of this fellow here. Are you okay?" – he asked the prostrate young man.
The youth groaned, struggling to right himself. "I think something is broken. Like maybe a rib or some stuff there."
– "Wait a moment." – Martin replied, kneeling behind the drillmaster's victim. A vicious-looking black-bladed knife appeared in his left hand. The rear edge of the blade was serrated. Martin twisted the knife, pressing the serrations against the plastic. Two rough, tearing movements with the knife – and the plastic handcuffs fell to the ground. – "This might be better."
- "Thanks." – the young man said, flexing his fingers. – "I can't believe what just happened. I really thought he was gonna beat me to death right there and then. I counted myself dead for sure." – the young man sat down on the sand, stretching his bruised legs.
- "What's your name?" – the advisor asked, looking upon the near-naked rescuee.
- "My name's Jake. " – said the young man – "Jake Windham."
- "I see, Mr. Windham. Any idea why this... miserable parody of a human being tried to kill you?"
- "It's because I tried to run away. They caught me five hours later , with a light helicopter and some dogs. The man who runs the entire place – colonel Arkham – ordered Sergeant Gibbs – that was the instructor you'd just shot – to take me as far out of the city as possible so nobody would hear it or find my bones."
"But of course, that never occurred," – Martin completed the sentence. – "Let me guess, instead he decide to take you to a location in the middle of nowhere, with the plan of torturing you as long as he possibly could?”
“Yes,” – Jake nodded – “He said, 'it's not enough that you are punished for running away'. He said I made him lose a night of sleep, and.,.” – the youth shook his head. – “Who cares. He was just looking for an excuse.”
“Well, happily Arthur here turned up. Arthur, you can drive, right?”
“A little bit.” – Arthur answered, slightly confused by the sudden inquiry. – “Why does this...”
“Well, this fellow's car.” – Martin jabbed at the corpse with his foot. – “I think his stuff is yours now.”
It took Arthur a second to reach the decision. “Jake, you know how to shoot a gun?”
- “No.” – Jake raised an eyebrow – “Why would I know something like this?”
- “Okay.” – Arthur shrugged, reaching for the dead man's holster- “It's yours anyway. I'm going to hand it to you when you're better, all right? And I'm sure we can teach you.”
- “Good call,” – said Martin.
Shaking, Jake made several haphazard steps. He groaned in pain as he moved.
“He's given you quite a working-over, hasn't he?” – Martin asked – “Don't worry,” – he added in a reassuring tone. – “We're going to get you help. We were headed to a place where you can get help.”
“Ghouls!” – Arthur shouted.
Where they came from was anybody's guess – but it was not hard to understand how they've got here. Attracted no doubt by the noise of the fighting and Jake's screams of pain, they stood on the sides of the shallow – three of them, dried and mummified with sand, approaching from its naked, sandy edges. From the bush, the sounds of breaking branches announced the arrival of more.
Arthur raised his rifle, aiming at the head of one of the creatures, and pulled the trigger. The rifle jumped in his arms and fired twice – he forgot the had the switch shifted to the full-auto position, and let off a short burst.
The result was spectacular. The shambler fell to its knees and then rolled towards the bottom of the shallow, the top of its head missing entirely. Arthur fumbled with the selector – and in the meanwhile, Martin came down on one knee and immediately stood up – it was merely half a second, enough to retrieve a tiny gun from his boot. It was small just a small handle and two short, wide barrels. Arthur had never seen this particular gun in Martin's hands before.
Martin leveled the gun at one of the creatures and fired. Both barrels spat fire at once, the gun hopping upwards in the advisor's hand. The monster fell backwards, black blood spurting out of its eye, it's hands flailing as if it was trying to grasp air.
The third shambler attempted to step down the edge of the ravine – and promptly lost balance, rolling down the slope, towards Jake. The youth let out a scream of terror – this time a high-pitched scream, like one would give off if suddenly confronted with a giant, disgusting, insect on one's pillow, and ran back up the slope.
Arthur dropped his rifle. It's barrel struck painfully against his knee, and it hung on the sling aimlessly as he reached for his pistol. But the advisor was already moving. He bent down for only a brief instant – and straightened up. In his hand was his pistol, the same one that the drillmaster had knocked out of his hand. Martin held it gingerly in his left hand. The dead creature struggle to get up – and then Martin fired off two rapid shots. The shambler twitched for one last time and collapsed to the ground once more.
The crunching noises from the bushes continued. By now they have grown closer. Clearly more and more of the shamblers were being drawn to the noise, moving faster and faster as they became excited by the prospect of fresh food.
“Reload!” – Martin shouted. His apprentice obeyed without question, picking up the rifle that he had just now let go of. The magazine released clicked, and the empty magazine fell to the ground. Arthur did not care. He would recover it later – but right now he simply slammed another one in and slammed the side of his rifle. The bolt slammed forward – and immediately, next to his ear, the advisor's gun sounded more like a jackhammer.
Arthur did not even have time to get scared. A ghoul burst out of the bushes just above him, dressed in a set of denim coveralls, a red shirt and a yellow work helmet. It looked almost like a cartoon character – except that cartoon characters rarely have greasy, disheveled hair coupled with graying, dead skin. The first shot glanced off the side of its work helmet, throwing its head backwards, with the second shot making contact. As if in slow motion, Arthur saw the ghoul moving forward, pushed on by the sheer momentum of its last burst of speed, and falling down the slope. The body – now a real corpse, not a walking one – missed him by inches. By mere reflex, he pulled the trigger. Three shots rang out, going completely wild.
- “Switch!” – Martin shouted at the top of his lungs – “Switch! Switch!”
Arthur understood. Moving his finger across the side of the gun, he flipped the selector switch. It stood vertically now – just in the position to fire just one shot at a time, whenever the next ghoul appeared.
And of course it did. This creature was barely recognizable as a former human being. It had been injured as it ran through the bushes, the branches leaving long, horizontal tears along both cheeks. One of its eyes had been missing too, black ichor running down the left side of its face. It was accelerating with every step, running down the slope, it's hands stretching out to grab – and then its head exploded like an overripe watermelon.
- “Up the hill!” – Martin commanded, firing two shots at another figure even as it began to emerge from the bushes. It crashed backwards, branches cracking as it fell to the ground. – “Up the hill, Arthur! Back to the car!”
Arthur lingered for merely a second, bending down to reclaim his magazine. He struggled up the sandy slope. The sand flowed around his feet, and he fell forward, throwing his hand out in front at the last second. Next to him, Martin shouted again: “Everybody, up the slope! Up the slope before more -”
Crashing through the bushes more and more of them came. Sudd
enly, Martin fell backwards, two of the creatures grabbing his arms, biting into the tough cloth of the black biker jacket. Scrambling back to his knees, Arthur saw the legs of a ghoul right in front of his face. It was barefoot, with its left toe missing – a gaping, black, open wound where skin was supposed to be. Arthur acted without thinking – just pulled the trigger. The ghoul fell over like a felled tree, its ankle torn apart under it. Living or dead, it was still subject to gravity.
Somewhere in a different world, Martin's gun fired twice in rapid succession. Why exactly, or whether it hit something, Arthur didn't know. He could not even contemplate such things. He only saw the ghoul next to him. The proximity of fresh, living flesh had made the thing excited – and fast. It swiped for him with its hands as it struggled to get up.
He pulled the trigger. The creature jerked backwards as if it had been punched, one, two, three wide, torn holes appearing in its torso. That wouldn't kill it – but it could keep it off him long enough for him to crawl backwards. This was just instinct. Keep away from the dangerous thing. Away, away!
The monster grabbed ferociously for his foot. It was a hand-to-hand fight now, a fight that nobody could win. He mashed his foot down towards the dead face, and heard a crunch. The creature's teeth failed it, cracking and coming lose from the jaw. He stomped again. Something else snapped, and the ghoul's head tilted backwards.
Overhead, three more gunshots rang. He was not certain what gun it was from. There was simply no time to think about that. There were only a few more things to do now. He yanked the gun up to his shoulder. Somewhere, off to his side, Martin's pistol barked once more – and then once again. The dead creature that Arthur had stomped threw itself forward, but he was able to throw it off easily enough, kicking it in the chest with both legs. Ribs cracked under his boots as the creature recoiled from the blow – and immediately it grabbed his legs, trying to pull him down towards its gaping maw.
