“Now, to the real reason we’re all gathered here. Ke Tau,” Breytenbach said.
The words dropped into the atmosphere like a stone in a pond, the effect rippling out until it affected everybody.
“As you all know, Ronnie and Mike returned this morning. They were debriefed and on my orders have kept the information to themselves until this meeting,” Breytenbach continued. “I’d like for them to tell you what they found out themselves. Afterward, we need to decide on a course of action.“
“Where are they?” Elise asked.
“We’re here,” Ronnie replied, entering the room, followed by Mike. They had washed. Their damp hair clung to their skin, fresh shirts replacing their stained, sweat-soaked fighting gear.
“On time, as ever,” Breytenbach affirmed, glancing at his watch. He waited until each of them sat down and the room fell silent. “Whenever you’re ready, Ronnie.”
“Right, I’ll make it short,” Ronnie said, eyes traveling around the room. “We met and spoke to somebody from inside Ke Tau’s gang. She has provided me with information and also agreed to help us if she can.”
The room broke into a low hum of conversation.
“Who is this woman?”
“Are you sure she can be trusted?”
“How can she help us?”
Even Dr. Lange raised his voice.
Ronnie lifted his hands until the noise died down before continuing. He told them about the old woman and the talk he’d had with her. “Her name is Rebecca. She acts as a servant to Ke Tau and his men, tolerated because of her usefulness and age.”
“Why would she help us?” Julianne asked.
“Ke Tau infected her son with the virus then tied him to a pole, forcing her to watch him turn. All because he refused to join them. His corpse is still there, serving as a warning to both others and her.”
Julianne shook her head slowly, her face filled with pity. “The poor lady.”
“What else?” Breytenbach prompted.
“She confirmed the information Kabelo provided and gave more.“
A lightning glance shot between Julianne and Elise. Elise’s eyes hinted at triumph while Julianne’s fingers tightened around her pen until her knuckles shone white. The sudden tension between the two women did not go unnoticed, and Breytenbach gestured to Ronnie to sit before an argument could erupt.
“With the information we now have, we can plan an assault on their base with a possible chance of success. However, casualties will be high, and the chance of failure remains,” Breytenbach said. All eyes turned to him, personal gripes forgotten in the face of this grim news.
“Is there no other way?”
“There is one.” Breytenbach sighed. “The woman, Rebecca, hinted at possible allies within the gang. They would have to be persuaded to join our cause, though.”
“Persuaded how?” Dr. Lange asked.
“One of us would have to infiltrate their base.”
“Infiltrate their base?” Julianne said. “Like a spy?”
“Yes. It’s both crazy and dangerous,” Breytenbach said. “But it might tip the odds in our favor. With someone on the inside, we could coordinate a double attack. Both from without and within.“
“And who would be willing to do this? What if it backfires and they kill him or her?” Julianne asked.
“It can’t be a woman. We all know what they do to women,” Elise said.
“And it can’t be one of my team or anyone who’s been on a raid recently, either. They might be recognized,” Breytenbach said. “We know they’re watching us.”
“I’ll do it.” The gruff timbre of Michael’s voice startled them all.
Breytenbach’s head swung toward the man in question, sending a sharp pain through his temple. He suppressed the resulting wince and studied Michael with surprise. “You? You’re willing to take the risk?”
“I am.” Michael looked at each of them with flat eyes, no expression crossing his features. “They don’t know me, have never seen me, and I possess the necessary training.”
He’s right. They don’t know him. Breytenbach turned to Michael. “You’re sure? You realize what this entails?”
“I do.”
“Then it’s decided.”
Chapter 23 - Michael
The moon hung full and fat, a gigantic orb dripping silver droplets of light onto the landscape below. It illuminated the steel bars crisscrossing the gate, giving it an unearthly glow.
Dark shapes scurried about, working to open the monstrosity in hushed silence. Michael stared at the scarred wood, waiting. Next to him, Dr. Lange stood. Neither said a word for what was there to say?
The wind shifted, a sharp breeze swirling through the camp. His nostrils flared, searching for any clues the air might offer. The night was dark, and when he set out, he would be vulnerable to attack. A tall shadow approached, revealing itself as Max.
“Ready?” Max asked.
“Yes.”
“We’ll be in touch.”
Michael didn’t bother to answer, settling for a stiff nod. He hated idle talk. As he turned to go, the voice of Dr. Lange stopped him. “Good luck, and thank you for your service.”
Despite his natural inclinations, he felt profound respect towards the scientist. For almost a year, he’d served the man, protecting him from harm and enabling him to continue his research.
Long after the army disappeared, falling beneath a barrage of dead flesh, conflicting orders, poor morale, and a dissolute government, Michael continued to stay. All because he believed in the scientist and his abilities. “Farewell, Dr. Lange.”
Settling the worn canvas bag across his shoulders, he set off into the night. It was quiet but not silent. His ears picked up on the rustling of field mice in the grass and the chirping of crickets. The gravel of the rough path leading to the gate in the fence crunched beneath his boots. In the distance, a goat bleated, awoken from its sleep.
Though it was unlikely any infected lurked in the field around him, he stayed alert, nonetheless. He had not lived this long by underestimating the enemy.
Likewise, he kept low to the ground, using cover whenever it was available. Ke Tau had people watching them. That much was evident from their past experiences with the man. It would not do for Michael to be seen leaving the camp, only to show up on the gang leader’s doorstep looking for asylum.
He reached the gate guarding the fence and climbed over. Dropping low to the ground, he paused, listening. Now that he had left the safety of the grounds, zombies became a much more immediate problem. After a few seconds, he concluded he was alone and settled into a swift, ground-eating pace. He had far to go, and many obstacles stood in his way.
When Max had heard he planned to walk, the young leader objected, offering him a vehicle. This was folly, and Michael told him so in no uncertain terms. Ke Tau would recognize the car. Or one of his watchers would.
No. Michael would walk. He would show up looking the way the gang members did: scruffy, dirty, unwashed, and rough.
Minutes ticked by, one blending into the next with numbing sameness as time ceased to exist. The pitted dirt road flowed beneath his feet, while his senses tracked any noise, movement, or smell that occurred.
Stunted trees arced up to the sky, reaching gnarled fingers to the light. It was a relief to be away from people, away from the stresses and demands of society, even one as small and uncertain as the camp. He’d never been one for the social niceties, left baffled by the overt display of emotion shown by human beings.
He reached the highway and, his hand hovered over the handle of his knife. The brush tapered out, giving way to the road that wound through the countryside like a gray snake, twisting and turning, yet unnaturally straight. Man made.
The going became easier, the dangers of breaking an ankle lessening on the tar. It boasted its fair share of potholes, of course, worsened by neglect and inclement weather. But it was easier to navigate by the light provided by the moon. The problem was, t
hat made it easier for infected too.
Not letting his guard down for an instant, Michael pushed on, devouring the kilometers beneath his boots. His breathing was smooth and regular, his broad chest rising and falling rhythmically.
A man of precision, he had not let slip on his physical exercise for even a moment since the outbreak began. He trained each day in a manner that would kill a lesser man, a fact that now stood in his favor.
To his left, a low hill rose from the ground like a hulking bear. His first landmark. Michael nodded with approval. He was making good time.
At the same time, his muscles tensed. He slipped his blade from its leather holster, holding it low with the cutting edge up. Ahead lay a four-way crossing, clogged with cars both crashed and abandoned. A path had been cleared through it by Breytenbach and his team, but it remained a dangerous place, a prime spot for infected.
The square hulk of a rusting sedan appeared from the gloom, mute and threatening. Michael’s pulse picked up in readiness, but he felt no fear.
Not yet.
With the barest whisper of sound, he passed the broken metal shell. His head swiveled from side to side. He kept his eyes and ears open.
A truck loomed ahead, one tire hanging off the sidewalk where it had been pushed out of the way. Again, he passed without incident.
Edging to the right, he swerved around a knot of three more vehicles, a mass of steel and glass meshed together in a cold embrace. A crash.
Through a broken window, a dried out corpse slumped across the steering wheel drew his attention. He crept closer. The driver had once worn braids. Cornrows ran across the dried-out scalp that now clung to the skull beneath with desperate tenacity.
A tremor ran through Michael’s body, and he came to a dead stop. His eyes fixed on the long, black braids trailing across the corpse’s back. His mind flashed back to a memory. One of an earlier time. Before the outbreak, before the zombies, before everything.
Laughter filled his ears, exuberant and lively. Skin, the color of melted chocolate, shone beneath the soft light of lit candles, their golden glow casting a satin sheen across a face. Her face. “Valerie.”
The hair on the back of his neck rose. A soft rasp reached his ears. The sound tore him from his past. He whirled, balancing on the balls of his feet. His arm went up and to the side. The needle sharp point of his blade plunged through tissue. The knife buried itself to the hilt in the temple of an infected, penetrating the brain.
He looked the creature in the eyes as it slid off the blade and crumpled to the ground. Once more, his mind flashed back to another day, and another crumpled form that lay at his feet like a broken doll.
Michael shuddered, shaking off the melancholy that threatened to overtake him. He knelt to wipe the black goo off his knife on the torn remnants of cloth that draped the corpse. Rising to his feet, he resumed his journey, not allowing his mind to wander again.
The hours passed, one after another as he walked, leaving the crossing and its horrors far behind him. On the horizon, tendrils of gray announced the coming of dawn, the blackness of night lightening to a murky soup. In the distance, the faint outlines of buildings made themselves known.
Tendrils of white fog appeared, snaking through the trees and undergrowth. They snuck across the ground, ghostly fingers caressing his calves with an invisible touch. The mist rose, filling the air around him. It thickened until he walked in a billowing cloud.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath.
With visibility reduced to practically zero, Michael slowed, the knife once more held at the ready in front of him. This was the last thing he needed. To take on the urban maze of town with its droves of infected corpses shuffling around, hunting for prey, while blinded.
There was no alternative.
So be it.
With stoic determination, Michael plunged into the bowels of the mist. He followed the road down the middle, navigating by the broken white line that passed beneath his feet. Droplets formed on his skin, beading together and dampening his clothes.
Buildings rose around him, their roofs visible above the swirling sheets of white. It was quiet. As quiet as a battlefield once the slaughter was done. When the wind shifted, the fog parted, revealing glimpses of a world both dead and forgotten.
Naked trees reached stiff fingers to the sky, birds perched on their branches with feathers fluffed against the cold. As if in answer, a shiver ran through his flesh, goosebumps rising on his skin. I’m lost in an alien world; an alternate dimension.
These morbid thoughts caught him by surprise. Not one for introspection or flights of fancy, he’d never had much imagination. His foot landed in a puddle of water, making a splash.
A decayed hand reached through the mist, grabbing his collar. He spun, breaking its grip and aimed a backhanded stab at the infected. The blade landed skew, pushing through the cheek and grinding on teeth. He reversed, aiming higher and dropped the zombie with a second thrust.
He whirled, looking for more attackers. A face appeared, the skin in tatters and beaded with droplets of moisture. He lunged, catching the thing in the stomach with his shoulder. It fell, and he ended its struggles with a swift downward thrust. Silence fell, broken only by the cawing of a Hadida taking flight.
Michael looked at the broken body lying at his feet. It was a woman or used to be at one point. With infected as decayed as this it was hard to tell, but the pearls around her throat and the designer blazer made it clear.
Valerie had never been one for ostentatious finery, preferring to wear simple dresses and flats. Practical clothing. He pictured her once more, laughing in the sunlight, her teeth white and her eyes sparkling. A smile played on his lips, but fell away as the words that haunted him at night rose in his mind. “Why don’t you love me enough?”
He turned away and continued his trek, pushing all memories of her from his mind. The past was the past. Nothing would or could bring her back. Michael navigated through the maze of streets with difficulty, having to rely on faded signs to make his way. More than once, he took a wrong turn, making it necessary to backtrack.
Infected stumbled upon him often, or he upon them. He dispatched them with practiced ease, his body moving like a well-oiled machine. Strangely, the fog turned out to be a blessing in disguise. While it hid the zombies from sight, it also hid him from them. Without it, he would have had to kill many more.
An hour passed, and the sun rose. Its rays beat down on the earth, warming the air. The mist thinned, drawing back like the tide pulling out to sea. He recognized a building to the right. He was getting close. One more block to go.
Michael took a moment to pause, hunkering down behind an electrical box to make sure the area was clear. He slung his backpack off, setting it down. He drank a bottle of water in one long gulp and ate the food Elise had packed for him, popping the boiled eggs into his mouth one after the other, followed by a couple of biscuits.
The remaining items in his bag were sparse, no more than a wandering survivor might carry: a tattered blanket, tin cup, spoon, and fork, a rusted pistol containing three rounds, canned food, more water, and socks.
Settling the pack back in place, he reached down and scooped up a handful of dirt. Michael smeared it over his face and arms, rubbing the grime beneath his nails. The clothes he wore were old and tattered, and rips covered the material. He rubbed more dirt into his jacket, shirt, and pants. His boots were muddy already.
After a quick survey of his surroundings, he rose and walked the final distance. The barricades and rubbish blocking the streets around Ke Tau’s headquarters came into view. Infected lashed to poles rasped at the sight of him. Decapitated heads on spears gaped, eye sockets picked clean.
Seconds later, two guards carrying rusted AK47’s on slings came around a corner. Shouts rose like the hum of angry bees. He stopped walking and raised his arms in the air. “Ke Tau. Take me to Ke Tau.”
The guards screamed at him to get down, brandishing their guns.
The muzzles followed him as he sank to his knees, arms still held above his head. A booted foot caught him in the back, pushing him onto his face. Blows rained down from above, the sting of each leaving behind a dull throb.
“Take me to Ke Tau,” he repeated, teeth gritted against the pain.
Rough hands pulled him to his feet, and he was shoved forward. He passed through the gates where more guards lounged against the walls. They stared at him with dull eyes, chewing on wads tobacco.
One spat at him, and the glob of saliva ran down his cheek. Michael remained impassive, his face a blank page.
The fortified doors swung open to admit him and his tormentors. The interior was dim after the bright light outside, worsened by the metal shutters bolted in place across every window.
Fetid air rolled over him, pushing its way into his nose and mouth, coating his tongue. A sordid mixture of sweat, cigarettes, alcohol, and weed. His nostrils flared, the sensitive membranes soaking it up. He thought he detected the metallic twang of blood.
Although Michael made sure to keep his eyes hooded, he took in every detail around him. Every face, exit, weapon, and security feature was added to the ever-growing list in his mind.
His captors shoved him through a set of double doors, throwing him to his knees in front of a table. Behind that table sat a man, smoking a cigarette. The smoke curled from his nostrils, adding to the haze in the atmosphere.
Ke Tau.
Michael recognized the man by the reverence with which the others treated him. The inhabitants appeared fearful, scurrying past with their eyes fixed upon their feet. A young girl, ripe with the flush of youth sidled up and placed a full platter in front of the gang leader. He ignored her and picked up a hunting knife.
Ke Tau was short and slender, with dark skin stretched so tightly across the bone it revealed the skull underneath. But it was the scar on his face that stood out the most. Knotted and raised, the ridges were a mass of bleached tissue, bisecting the left eye. That eye was blind, the orb a yellowish white.
The other was unharmed but dead, a fathomless pool of darkness that carried no light, no life. That single eye now fixed on Michael’s face with distant interest.
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