by Karpa, Boris
"I don't know, but I've not seen any ghouls inside the fence, either.. Have you?" – he added the last words, making them sound as if they were an afterthought.
There was no choice. They simply ran between the warehouse buildings – long, bland boxes with lightly-slanted roofs. They seemed all alike – with the only difference being large numbers, as tall as a man could stand, painted on their walls. It could not be guessed what each one held. They passed by dead, dust-covered vending machines, and an abandoned front-end loader.
“How are we going to find anything here?” – Arthur shouted, his voice overcoming the sound of the rain and the distant rumbling of gunfire. – “Do you even know what you're looking for?”
“No!” – Martin replied, shouting at the top of his lungs. – “That's not how it works!”
“What do you mean -” – Arthur paused as he slipped and nearly fell on the wet, slippery tarmac – “What do you mean that's not how it works? You've brought us this far and you don't even know what you're looking for?”
“It's a headquarters! It's somewhere in the middle of this mess and it probably looks important!”
“That's the single most-”
Arthur stopped, the words stuck halfway down his throat. The beginning of an angry speech had been interrupted by a low, guttural moan that could not have possibly come out of a human throat – not a living human throat that is. He turned – and saw it standing only twenty yards away. Even in the dim moonlight it was obvious – he was standing face to face with a ghoul.
For a brief moment it stood there, seemingly unaware of him – dressed in a military olive-drab work uniform, a rifle sling still looped uselessly across its body. It was clear why it did not react at once – it was still wearing a helmet which had slid down to cover its eyes. Its lower jaw and parts of its cheeks were covered in something dark – blood. He'd eaten someone after he turned.
The ghoul stepped forward – a first, uncertain, shambling step. The second step was more certain. On the third one, it lunged forward, running, and then leaping towards the two friends. The rifle and pistol roared at once, empty cases flying off into the darkness, the uniform tearing where the rounds struck – and then the creature sailed right between the two targets. Blind! Something exploded in Arthur's head like a light bulb as he turned to follow the assailant. Only at the last moment did he remember to lower his rifle, to avoid sweeping the barrel at the advisor.
The ghoul fell forward clumsily – but then it rose back. For a moment, it looked comical – a human-like figure in a wet, loose uniform hanging on its body, the helmet now hanging on its straps in front of the creature's face – but with the first swipe of its arms any illusion of it being funny vanished instantly.
The ghoul's – now black, gnarly claws – swept at Arthur's vest, tearing at the cloth – but also snapping, leaving disgusting bits of nail stuck in the black material. He pulled the trigger, not even bothering to aim for the head, just to get the creature off, off, way from him. It stumbled backwards – and then launched itself forward like a professional jumping.
Arthur screamed out in terror as a hundred and twenty pounds of zombie flesh hit him at once. He flew backwards onto the tarmac, rainwater splashing under him. Pain shot through his back as he hit the ground, pulling the trigger almost on instinct. Black blood sputtered from a hole in the creature's chest and a second later it impaled itself on his bayonet by sheer momentum.
The creature moaned and grabbed onto his shoulders. Arthur screamed – not even a dignified scream of pain, just a high-pitched whine of pure, hopeless terror. He knew that the creature couldn't tear away the material of the biker jacket or his vest – but he knew also the tiniest scratch would mean his death. Worse, it was still not giving up on biting him. The helmet now hanging off the side of its head, the ghoul thrust forward, trying to reach his face with its teeth. Only the bayonet still stuck in its chest stopped it from getting to him. He could feel the putrescent smell coming out of the ghoul's maw. The grayish-black corpse-teeth snapped at him, but could not get him – not quite yet. But the creature was growing insistent now, growing excited. Its morsel of flesh was too near, it could not be denied. Arthur kneed it hard in the groin – in reflex more than anything. It snapped at him again.
Then there was a new sound – not the moan of a ghoul, but the roar of a human being. It was full of life – a nearly-inhuman, animal roar of rage. And then there was no ghoul. Something – something large and black – hit the creature from the side, and toppled it off Arthur's chest. There was, then, a new roar.
Arthur rose on one elbow. The pain was coming back now, a dull pain rising from his tailbone through his spine, radiating to his shoulders and shoulder blades. Slowly he turned towards the source of the sound. There he saw the ghoul, lying on its back. One of the creature's arms was turned out sideways, bent at an unnatural angle, and the other pinned under Martin's knee, the advisor seated on its chest, raising his knife like an icepick, stabbing into the ghoul's face again and again, creaking bones and stabbing eyes. He roared like an animal, delivering blow after blow – even though even one of these stabs would have rendered even a ghoul dead – really dead.
“Martin!” – the apprentice shouted.
There was no reply. The knife rose again, gleaming with the unwholesome black of the ghoul's blood, and fell down again, cleaving through the corpse grey skin of the creature's forehead, and rose again once more, splattering blood and brains. And again it fell, bone shattering with an unhealthy crunch.
“Martin! It's dead! Martin, we need to be going! Martin!”
The knife stopped in mid-air. For a mere fraction of a second, it seemed the advisor was simply going to ignore his apprentice, bringing the knife down again. And then he simply wiped the knife off on what used to be a soldier's uniform.
“Give me a moment, Arthur. I'm sorry, I...”
“You've just saved my life, I think.” – Arthur smiled and extended a hand, helping Martin get off the ground – “I don't think I can blame you if you were a bit enthusiastic doing it.”
“You are developing a sense of humor.” – Martin noted. – “But you're right.”
“I am? About what?”
“We need to be going. We need to find the headquarters building. Something is telling me that we're not going to be quite happy when we find it.”
*
“Well, look at that.” – Arthur quipped – “I think one of us can see the future. Actually, both of us.”
“How's that?”
“You said we won't be happy when we find Headquarters, and I said we're all screwed. Well, we're both right.”
The headquarters building was at least clearly labeled. In two ways. First of them was a large sign hanging out front. It was white, bearing in black capital letters the words FACILITY HEADQUARTERS. The second was even more informative. The entry door had been tied off with a chain hanging on the outside, and large, ugly, curved letters had been spray-painted across the entire door and parts of the wall beside it. They read: DON'T OPEN. DEAD INSIDE.
“Wunderbar,” – Martin uttered, looking upon the building.
“What?” – the apprentice responded.
“Wonderful I say. Just bloody wonderful. The headquarters building. Full of ghouls.”
Somewhere far away, the noise the battle kept on, like the rumbling of a faraway thunderstorm. For a few seconds, the two friends looked upon the building. It seemed – or did it only seem? – that the front door was moving, as if someone inside it was struggling against the chains that held it shut.
Two weeks ago, Arthur could not even have imagined himself saying what he said next. He slapped magazine release, reloaded his rifle, and turned to the advisor.
“Well, I don't think there's anything to it, then. We need to clear the building.”
For a brief moment, Martin looked back at his apprentice in silence.
&n
bsp; “This is really not the time for you to grow a sense of humor, you know that?”
“Because I don't quite think two people could clear that building. Even if both of us were Rambo. Which neither of us is. Certainly not me, and if you were holding out on some special forces training, now is really not a good time to tell me about it.”
Arthur's brain was working at a speed he'd even thought possible before. Perhaps it was the chifir, or maybe the adrenalin rush of the fight, but he understood the implications instantly. Even if they were the best fighters in the world, they could have been hurt – and if even one of them was bit or scratched by a ghoul, the other one could not fulfill his task. That won't do.
“What about the armory? Won't that be labeled too? Armories are important, they wouldn't just-”
“Paint a digit on the side of the building? I hope they don't.”
For a brief moment, the two men looked around. The solution did not appear obvious. They were at the very center of a massive compound. Somewhere in it was the armory. But how could they find it? This was like finding a specific house in a city – except without directions, or a map, or even knowing what the place was like. Now if they only had a map...
“Martin?”
“Yes?” – the advisor looked around, as if hoping that he would see a building with an “ARMORY” sign on it just next to the headquarters building.
“Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”
“No. Nor do I have a pink flamingo.”
“Martin, how can you joke in a situation like this?! All I was thinking is, someone must have locked those things in!”
“And they're clearly not alive now, what's the point!” – Martin shouted – “Even if we do find them, they're probably waddling around moaning for brains somewhere!”
“Right. Right. Because if they'd be alive they'd leave. They wouldn't lock the gate after them, either.”
“True.” – Martin looked dejected. For a while more, the two looked around. Each understood that they would need to start their search again – and neither could bring himself to start moving again.
“Martin?” – the apprentice asked suddenly.
“What now?”
“Remember you said something about fire safety maps?”
“Yes. They're for arranging things like putting out fires, working with firefighters-”
“So, if they're meant for fires, would they be inside a building? I mean if it caught fire, you'd be pretty much out luck, wouldn't you?”
The advisor looked down on Arthur, his eyes growing wide. And then he did something he had never done before. Not even when Arthur saved his life. He hugged the apprentice, and then whooped loudly.
“Yes, Archie, yes! I've forgotten all about it! You are a genius Archie! Let's go!”
“Let's go where?” – Arthur raised an eyebrow.
“I've served in the Army, you know that, right?”
“No, I didn't, I thought you were just a teacher-”
“There's no such- never mind! I did two years in Logistics! That's how I knew about dry storage facilities. The maps – they're supposed to be just next to the headquarters building! That's a fire safety rule, you're perfectly right Archie, let's just go look for it!”
They sprinted around the building. They did not pay heed to the moaning of the ghouls inside it – the ghouls were inside and they were outside and they simply had guns and no time to worry about these things at all. The maps were here! They simply had to be here!
And when they were found, they were simply a big disappointment. Arthur expected a large set of aerial photographs, or at least a set of laminated, colored maps, like in war films, taped to the wall. Instead there was just a big red box with the front open somewhere here. Two buckets under the box, one with sand. Fire extinguishers rested to the sides of the box, and fire axes and other tools that Arthur didn't know – but most importantly, mounted inside the box was the map. It was ugly – simply a set of boxes drawn by pen. Each box marked with a number – and a legend. The numbers matched up – 'Headquarters', 'Uniform long-term storage #34', 'Kitchen' – and, matching a square circled in red by a shaking hand, “ARMORY”. Written across the map in the same shaking hand was a single, plaintive word: HELP.
“Wow.” – Martin breathed out.
“Um?” – Arthur could only force out of himself. He could not help but feel underwhelmed by this silly wooden box and the hand-drawn map.
“The armory! It's right by the gate!”
“Had we known that, we could have...” – Arthur whispered.
“I know! Run! Run!”
They ran again. Time seemed to slow down, their feet moved like in a nightmare, as if they themselves had become ghouls, incapable of human motion. Somewhere out there, there were people that needed their help – and they could only be that fast. Rain obscured their vision, poured behind their collars, squelched in their boots – and they pressed on. Arthur could feel the cold air scratch against the back of his throat, hurting him with every breath taken, as if he was trying to gulp down a diamond file.
They nearly ran into the gate. They almost passed by the armory. It was tiny – far smaller than the other warehouse buildings – but then it was not a storage of all the guns here. Arthur already understood that. It was only a small box, the size of a storage container – in fact it had been made out of a storage container put up on bricks to keep it off the ground. And its door was still open.
“Why would he keep the door open?” – Martin muttered, reaching for one of his pockets.
“He?”
“I doubt it's 'they'. How many can you fit there?”
“A point.”
Martin held up his hands in front of him, almost like he did when he fired his pistol two handed. Only this time, the left hand was not supporting his gun hand – it was holding a small flashlight. “Let's go,” – he said, lowering himself into a half-crouch. Then he pressed something on the flashlight – and it went on, sending a cone of brilliant, dazzling light into the building.
The moan of a hungry ghoul was his reply. Both friends fired their guns without even a thought, putting shot after shot into the half-rotted face that suddenly appeared in the bright circle of light. And then there was silence.
“Very well.” – said Martin. – “Now we go.”
The armory was a mess. Guns lined the walls of course – more guns than Arthur had ever seen in one place, mostly Army rifles but also other types that he'd never seen before. But the floor was completely littered – with tools, food boxes, ammunition crates, and everything else under the sun. Worse yet, there was a second corpse. It lay at the deep end of the container-house. The black wound at the center of its forehead told the rest of the story.
“Poor guy.” – said Martin.
“Who? The guy we just shot?”
“Yes. See? That one there with the long hair? That's a woman. He was trying to save her. Pulled her back here from the headquarters. Put in all of those supplies.”
“But he was wrong.” – Arthur said.
“He was. But it was a right kind of wrong. At least he tried.” – Martin said. – “But we have no time for a minute of silence.”
“What do we do now?” – the apprentice asked.
“Now is the easy part. See those tubes?” – Martin pointed to several mysterious green tubes, each about a yard long. – “Grab two of them. Carry them up the guard tower. We need to check out what's up.”
“What? Tubes?”
“I'll explain on the tower.”
*
The guard tower was an ordinary guard tower – a metal box on four tall, spindly-looking legs, as tall as a three-story building, with its walls reaching up to a man's chest and a roof to protect from the rain and sun supported by four bars that were a continuation of the same tall spindly legs –
and it was empty. Completely empty – there was not even a trace of the guard. There had not been a machinegun here, either – only a simple, tall chair like a barstool, just tall enough you could not comfortably sit on it – and if one fell asleep, one could fall off immediately – like the real bar stools, thought Arthur – you get too drunk, and you fall off. There was nothing else – only the wind tapping against the metal roof of the guard nest. But there were also other sounds. Far worse sounds.
The screams of agony, carrying over the sounds of wind and rain, were only a prelude to the sight they beheld. The men that had camped out on the roofs near the base to support their approach with their fire were now about to pay for their success with their lives. Dozens of ghouls had clambered up the stairs and out on the building roofs, and now the riflemen had lost their only advantage – range. Now the ghouls were emerging onto the roofs in droves. Far away, the Florentines manning the trap were still standing strong. The clattering of their machine guns could still be heard, but they were too far away to even see their beleaguered comrades, much less assist them.
- "That's... it?" – Arthur uttered, with no breath in his voice, just his lips moving – "Is that seriously it?"
It seemed the height of unfairness – to have come this far and be stranded, completely powerless as these men were simply eaten alive only yards away from them.
- "This just isn't fair," – Arthur whispered. – "It's not fair." He looked upon the advisor, as if daring him to say that life is not fair. Had Martin uttered those words, Arthur would have probably leaped at him, tearing at his face with his teeth, like a ghoul. But the advisor had something far better than that to say.
“Damn it thrice to hell!” – Martin whispered. – “Hand me a tube, Arthur!”
Arthur merely stood there, hugging the heavy tubes. The brief exhilaration had vanished from his heart, replaced immediately by a sense of hopelessness – and guilt. They've planned this – Martin has planned this, and he had joined in – and now they have lead these people to their death. And after they died, how were they going to get out of here?
