by Jay Wilburn
“Doc,” Chef yelled.
Another shot was fired and passed over our heads. It made a metallic ping above and in front of us.
“Hold your fire, damn it,” someone’s voice echoed behind us just as we reached Doc’s body.
“Are you hit?” Chef coughed out as Doc sat up slowly.
Doc grunted, “Fence.”
I reached out and felt the black wire. The lights from the woods behind us passed over us again. I saw the tall posts between the lines of plain wire. It wasn’t barbed or electrified. It was wide apart and wouldn’t stop the dumbest zombie. As the light trained back from the distance, I looked up and saw the heads mounted on top of each tall post.
That would have normally kept me out of the fence.
The light sheering back and forth across the wire made me dizzy. I felt like the fence was waving sharply in the darkness. The heads looked like they were moving and watching me. It was possible.
“We have to go through,” Doc said as he crawled forward.
“We don’t know what this is,” Chef whispered.
Doc pointed back at the raiders that seemed attached to the tree line.
He said, “We know what they are and they have guns.”
Doc slid under the wire and held it up for us.
He said, “This is how the professional wrestlers did it.”
Chef actually laughed. I didn’t see what was funny as I followed him through the gap. It seemed like a bad idea to walk through the fence of impaled heads when the heavily armed Riding Dead were afraid to come out of the trees, but they were waiting for us.
We moved forward slowly as the lights swept back and forth again. Crops came into sight with the help of our pursuers’ lights. There were corn stalks and tomato plants. There weren’t really enough to justify a fence to scare bikers.
Then, we heard the horses approaching. It took me a moment to wrap my mind around the noise. Chef and Doc were pulling me toward the crops. I wished I had my knife instead of the .45 with less than a full load. We lay down in the dirt between rows. We were not hidden well.
The horses dropped to a trot as they came on us and approached the fence. I couldn’t see the faces of the riders or the faces of Doc and Chef on both sides of me. Four horses and the dark shapes on top of them went back behind where I couldn’t see them any longer.
The distant lights were snuffed out or retreated back into the trees. I was thankful and afraid. The voices on the horses seemed to be speaking in another language. I couldn’t make out the words. My ears were ringing and I felt like I was taking in air too loudly.
My feet were pointed toward the fence behind me. Two horsemen charged back away from the fence on my right going deeper into wherever we were. The other two started trotting slowly behind me. I tried not to inhale as I placed my face in the dirt between corn rows. They paused behind us and spoke more loudly. They were speaking English, but I only picked up bits.
I heard “night,” “trees,” “time,” “boundary” and “least.” The rest of the conversation was lost in my own breathing, the shuffling and snorting of the horses, and the night air.
They moved slowly on along the fence to my left in the general direction of the angle where the raiders had been firing. They were moving very slowly.
Doc rose up from the ground. It was too soon; they weren’t far enough away. He taped me and Chef lightly on our backs and then waved his fingers sideways to the right. He stepped over us and out of the corn. I didn’t want to go. Chef slinked after him. I was afraid to look in the direction of the horsemen patrolling the fence line. They couldn’t be the only ones.
Of the four cardinal directions defined by the black wire, skull-piked fence, away to the right was the only direction that didn’t have someone actively searching for us. I still didn’t want to go.
A low stone wall rose on one side as we traveled along the fence on the other. Every post on every twelve foot section had a severed head mounted and facing out as a warning we had clearly ignored. I was sure they were moving.
I heard a chain over the wall. I looked up expecting a dog, but a man was charging us. Doc looked too late as the man dove for Doc’s head. The man’s hands swung together and clapped as he leaned over the wall. Doc fell back into the black wire on the inside this time. The chain jerked taut and the man gagged as he leaned against it trying to fall off the wall. He gurgled and moaned as he clawed the air. It was too dark to see his face, but each swipe of the air revealed missing fingers on both hands. At my angle, I could see a deep chunk furrowed out of the side of his neck. He leaned back growling and then pulled tight against the chain again.
We moved forward to get clear of him. As he arced around and away from us at the end of his leash and collar, a woman in a heavy robe stepped out and was jolted backward and on her knees by the chain around her throat. She raised her arms in the darkness from the ground and let out a higher-pitched screech.
We moved forward again and another battered silhouette lurched forward more slowly pulling its chain along behind it. Its moan was deeper, but broken up into separate grunts as he started and stopped.
“We’re setting off the alarms,” Chef hissed.
Doc pointed up between the kneeling woman and the less enthusiastic grunter. I shook my head.
Doc said, “We have to get away from the fence and these ghoul guards. It’s set up this way for a reason.”
Chef said, “Well, quick, before they meet in the middle.”
Doc scrambled up the wall. The woman started crawling and jingling to her left. The thin shadow paused between grunts and started moving to his right. Doc took my hand and pulled me up as Chef climbed. Chef slipped. Doc started running from the wall. I reached back for Chef and helped him to his feet. We moved left to avoid the reach of the haggard shadow and then ran as the woman reached out through the grass for our legs.
We caught up to Doc on the wall of a small, wooden building. He placed his finger over his mouth as we stood next to him.
Three men walked within feet of us from around the corner on toward the fences. Their backs were to us directly in front of us. They were each carrying long guns or some sort of bludgeons.
A horse stepped into view beside us and snorted. The shape in the saddle leaned forward.
The rider bellowed, “Not to close; mind the length, son.”
One of the three men glanced back over his shoulder briefly and waved his weapon above his head. His eyes lingered a moment before he looked back toward the groaning zombies as they pulled their leashes back toward us and the new arrivals.
The horsemen pulled a long sword from under the blackness that shrouded him. It rang as it slid out and dropped dark along the side of the horse’s body. The horse looked in the direction of the blade and spotted us against the building. He bobbed his head and snorted at us. Then it backed up two steps. The rider disappeared behind the corner of the building.
“Whoa, beast,” he coaxed, “Stay true now. This isn’t for you.”
Doc peeled off the wall and moved across our bodies to the opposite corner. We followed. We rounded the building and moved deeper into the dark territory. As we ran on trying to keep the building between us and the rider, we heard the men coming back.
They were yelling something. I wanted to drop down to the ground, but Doc kept moving. I couldn’t hear what they said.
The rider yelled back, “Move down farther then.”
We were approaching larger buildings with lighted windows. We stayed low and started moving parallel to the more distant fence again. People were talking inside and in the distance. We kept moving.
We came to a picket fence. We followed it along hunched as low as we could and still be on our feet. The fence dropped away and we were moving through larger gardens than the corn and tomatoes we hid in earlier. The ground was far looser, so we stepped off into the grass between the large plots and moved along the edges.
We kept looking back at the lighted buildings t
o be sure the voices weren’t following us. As we passed between matching scarecrows in two opposing gardens, we heard low mumbling up ahead.
Doc knelt down and we waited. I couldn’t make out the words again, but it was close. It sounded like a low argument. The voices were talking over each other and were becoming more urgent. Doc craned his neck up to see through the crops. Chef tapped Doc’s shoulder over my head and pointed through the plants. Doc looked back and forth, but then shook his head. Chef tapped him again and pointed up through the bushes. Doc looked up and let out a low groan.
He got up and started walking. I tried to stay down, but Chef pushed me forward. I tried to look through the garden, but I didn’t see anything. Then, the scarecrow’s leg pushed up at the knee. It moaned as the ropes and spikes pulled against the flesh of its arms and ankle.
I looked back and saw the other one straining its neck to reach down to us on the ground as we passed between them.
“What is this about?” one of them said.
I stared up at the scarecrow in shock. I looked around at the other one.
“Stop right there,” the other said. “Identify yourself. We have curfew in effect. Who are you?”
Doc had already whipped his metal staff forward before I realized we had walked into two human guards on patrol. One tried to get his wooden club up, but was too late. Doc’s swing skimmed over the top of the club and collided with the man’s skull. His head didn’t break, but he fell down motionless. Doc actually seemed surprised.
The other charged forward bringing the club around in a practiced strike. Doc brought his bar up and the club bounced off above Doc’s head with a loud clang. The man whirled the bludgeon around at Doc’s ribs. Doc drove the end of the pole into the top of the man’s foot. He yelped and dropped his club along with all the power in his swing. Doc levered the bar forward into the man’s face knocking him to his back and causing his ankle to make a snapping noise. The man screamed now.
Doc jumped forward to silence him as the man pulled out a knife. Doc locked his hands over the hands and wrists of the man as he climbed on top of him on the ground.
As they struggled, we heard voices rising up behind us. Chef ran forward and grabbed up Doc’s bar off the ground. He pulled it out from between their bodies and raised it over his head.
Horses were approaching along with the voices.
Doc jammed the knife down into the chest of the man. The man heaved and then dropped his head back. Doc pulled the knife back out and drew it up over the man’s face while holding him down by his throat. When the man didn’t struggle, Doc paused and drew back looking down at the body.
He said, “I forgot how easy it was to kill people.”
Chef said, “We need to go.”
Doc pulled the man’s shirt open and began cutting into his chest. Chef just stared while clutching the aluminum pole to his side.
“What?” is all Chef managed to say.
Doc stood up and said, “Let’s go.”
As we went, I made out the letters “RD” around the original stab wound. We ran between the next two gardens and the excited scarecrows twisting against their crosses. We went through a row of sheds and ran across an open field again.
Before long, we saw the tall, black posts of the fence again. We ran directly toward it and the swatch of woods reaching out behind it. It was time to take our chances on the other side again.
As we ran, I could see light shining up into the sky in the distance to the right away from the wooded area and far beyond the fence. I didn’t feel safe anywhere.
Once we got closer, I could see there was no wire between these posts. Bodies rose up in the grass as chains rattled all along the path in front of us. As the chains waved from the tops of the posts, the leashed dead began stalking us on our side of the undead fence. The chains were longer than the ones from earlier and they overlapped as the zombies crossed over one another to meet us.
Three were able to come together in front of us. Doc reached out and took his pole from Chef. He pummeled the skulls through the reaching arms. As he knocked them to the ground he jammed the bloody knife into their faces, eyes, and scalps. One reached up again. Doc threw the knife point into the soil. He raised the bar above his head and slammed it down through the fingers breaking them backward. It pawed at the bar. Doc raised it again and slammed it down again and again. He lifted it again and drove the end down into its head. The arm dropped limp. Doc slammed the point back into its neck. Then he jabbed the ribs and then he jabbed the hip.
I thought back to the first day I drew back the secret curtain when I followed Doc and watched him pummel Officer Friendly. I had walked up behind him and almost grabbed him when he started. Then, I had hidden and I had followed to learn Collin Trasker’s dark secrets one by one.
The zombies on both sides of us walked out to the ends of their chains and stretched to try to become a part of the horrific action.
Chef took the path I had not and grabbed Doc’s shoulder. Doc shoved him back and drew the gory shaft back over his shoulder to swing.
Chef whispered, “What’s wrong with you?”
Doc said, “Why? Is he a friend of yours?”
“He’s dead,” Chef said.
“They’re all dead,” Doc said.
The horses were approaching the zombie line. Doc reached down and grabbed the knife up out of the dirt. We ran past the bodies, between the posts, and toward the woods.
A light came on in our path blinding us. The flashlight was on the end of a shotgun. Another hand drifted into the light holding a pistol.
“Stop there or die, Rezzers,” the voice said. “You’re over the line again.”
Chef said, “We’re not-”
The voice behind us yelled, “Lay down your weapons, murderers.”
The horses rode to a halt behind us. They were past the posts and didn’t show the same caution we had seen from the Riding Dead earlier. The man with the pistol stepped forward and I could see the Portown Chapter patch on his leather sleeve. He was not one of the ones we had seen earlier. The shotgun man was too short to be Vike.
Pistol man said, “These three belong to us. We are taking them. You need to go back to your side now.”
The men on the horses thumbed back hammers with a familiar, dangerous click.
One of the horsemen sobbed and then said, “We know who they are. You left your mark on my brother. You’re still holding his knife, you faithless dogs.”
Shotgun man said, “To hell with your brother. Get on your side or we’ll take your life just like the stupid, dead monsters you have tied to your-”
The shot exploded behind us and a burst of fluid misted out from shotgun man’s face as he staggered sideways to the ground. Pistol man ran across in front of us firing through our faces. One of the horses fell behind us. Both horsemen opened fire.
Dirt exploded up at my feet. I dropped to the ground anyway.
Two shots struck pistol man in the chest and sprayed out his back. He continued to fire as he fell. Shotgun wavered up to his knees and blasted out a round. He was struck in the chest by one more shot from behind us. As he fell slowly backward, the shotgun boomed again and one of the horses brayed in pain as it collapsed.
Everything was silent except for my ringing ears. I sat up and looked behind me. Both horses and riders were on the ground and motionless too.
Doc stood up out of the grass looking around cursing over and over.
He huffed. “Are we still alive?”
Chef said, “Let’s go. They’ll be coming from both sides.”
Doc said, “Grab their weapons and anything else they have. We’ll need all we can get.”
I started searching the raiders. I grabbed the pistol and shotgun. There was nothing else, but clothing. Doc got a pistol off one of the horsemen. He found nothing in the robes, but pulled a canteen and a pack of food out of the saddle.
Chef searched around, but couldn’t find the other horseman’s gun. He started go
ing through the saddle bags. The horseman lunged forward and bit down on Chef’s hand. Chef tried to pull back away from the bite, but the man kept his teeth clamped tight over Chef’s hand.
Chapter 12: The Hour It Boiled Over
People were approaching from the direction of the lights in the distance across the field where the Riding Dead had caught us. More were coming through at an angle along the line of posts where the horsemen had come to take us back for killing and carving their people.
Chef was clawing at the eyes of the man pinned under the dead horse that had his teeth locked on the meaty piece of Chef’s hand between the thumb and forefinger. Blood was running over the downed horseman’s pale lips and was dripping off his chin.
I just stood and stared.
Doc stepped up beside Chef and jammed the knife through the horseman’s ear. Every muscle in his head clinched and Chef screamed. The man collapsed pulling Chef down with him.
Doc straddled the horse’s body and tried to wretch the knife back and forth in the brain through the ear canal, but the jaws remained locked.
Chef screamed, “He was alive, Doc. Use the knife to pry open his teeth.”
Doc braced his foot and extracted the blade from the head. Chef held his own palm in agony. Doc slowly slid the blade between the back teeth.
The pursuers from both camps were getting closer. We were about to be the cause of the largest war since the Mad Hatter lost his head.
Chef said, “Careful, Doc, that knife has been in zombies.”
“You’re already bit,” Doc said.
“He was alive,” Chef shouted. “Don’t slice me and I’ll live.”
Doc pursed his lips as he twisted the knife slowly. The teeth cracked and broke. The jaw cracked inside the head as the pieces separated. Chef jerked his bloody hand free and clutched it to his chest.
Doc checked the clip to the gun he had taken. It was empty. There was one in the chamber.
“What are you planning, Trasker?” Chef asked.
“You’ve been bitten,” Doc said.
“Once you start killing,” Chef said, “you just can’t stop again.”
