"Shit, we must be in trouble!" Eric jammed a clip into the handle of his Glock and swung the door open, expecting to see Nick.
Instead, he saw a man wearing a black sweatshirt with the hood pulled up over his head, and a blue and grey bandanna covering the lower half of his face. A worried set of pale blue eyes peered back at Eric. "Who are you?" Eric hit the safety switch on his gun and aimed it at the stranger.
"Your friend is in danger. You have to help me before it's too late." The stranger was holding a pickaroon in his hands.
CHAPTER THREE:
RECOVERY
"Where... where am I?" Andrew strained to sit up, every muscle ached and he could feel his bones radiating pain. The room he found himself in – that mix of wood and nature – was strangely comforting despite the fact that he had no idea where he was.
"L'Anse aux Meadows." The voice belonged to his old friend Keith, a fellow method actor. He had gotten the job in the famous Viking settlement to show tourists the old way of how the Vikings settlers lived in Newfoundland. He was sitting behind a table, and a roaring fire burned behind him in a grey-bricked fireplace.
"Keith!" Andrew was overwhelmed with relief.
"Name’s Ragnor! King of the Viking settlement here in L'Anse aux Meadows." Keith tried to stay in character, but a giant smirk peeked out from under his giant beard.
Andrew looked over at his old friend who was every bit a Viking king. His long blond hair was tied into a ponytail, undercut on the sides, and his beard was thick and ran wild over his face, looking like a Brillo pad of thick, metal wires. His clothing was filthy, but still had a slight metallic shine. A large helmet rested on the table with white bullhorns protruding from either side. Keith stood up, and lifted Andrew from the floor effortlessly and shoved him into a chair, the wood creaking against the force. Keith slammed a bowl of meat down on the table, Andrew couldn't tell what kind, and pointed to a loaf of bread.
"Eat, you need to regain your strength." Keith picked up a giant, round shield. The rim was lined with metal but the middle was wooden with some symbol painted in red and yellow. Without saying another word, he turned and started to walk out of the hut.
"Keith, wait." Andrew reached out for his friend, but he lacked the strength to stand on his own.
"I'll be back, Andrew, but for now eat and get some more rest. You’re very lucky we found you out there, you would have died if we didn’t." Keith held the door open, and a cold breeze flooded the tiny hut. "I'll explain more when I come back."
Andrew looked down at the table hoping to find a fork or spoon, but the rough, birch tabletop was barren. He had no choice but to dig into the food with his bare hands. Whatever was in that bowl, Andrew figured it was most likely moose, was exactly what he needed. He used the bread to soak up the juices and he savoured every morsel of the food. Grease ran down his chin, but he didn’t let any of his meal go to waste, choosing to wipe his face and lick the oily sauce from his fingers like a savage. His belly ached from sudden surge of food, but Andrew would have kept eating if he had the opportunity for more. He tried to stay awake until his friend returned, but he passed out cold in the chair with his head bent down to his chest.
A thunderous thud startled Andrew from his exhausted sleep. He looked up to find his friend sat across the table from him. A wooden shield lay on the table between them.
"That is your shield, Brother Jarvik. When you're strong enough, pick it up and join us outside. We will show you everything you need to survive here." Keith’s deep blue eyes stared at the shield with pride.
"Keith... I need water." A dry cough interrupted Andrew’s sentence.
Keith pulled a strap off his shoulder and tossed the water bottle attached to it in front of Andrew. "Drink up." Keith’s voice was heavy with authority, almost commanding Andrew to drink the water. "Let me explain to you what's going on; you must be shocked to see me dressed like this."
After taking a large gulp of cold water, Andrew’s throat still felt dry, so without hesitation he tilted the cloth water bottle back and emptied the contents too quickly. Most of the water spilt over his face, making him wet and cold.
"We are not as crazy as we look," Keith continued, not waiting for Andrew to say another word. "We dress like this to instil fear into anyone who may harm us. During the first days of the outbreak, we tried to reach our families. Most of us were successful, but I wasn't so lucky." Keith’s head dropped down to his chest, tears welling in his eye. "I lost my little girl because I let someone take all of my supplies right from me. I didn't want a fight..." Keith choked back the anguish in his voice, pausing to wipe away the tears. "If I would have just stood up to the man, Anna would still be alive. I know she would. I vowed to never let anything like that happen again. I dressed up like King Ragnor of the Vikings to instil that fear, but people came running to me for protection." Keith chucked, wiping away more tears. "Guess I looked like hero, someone who could keep people safe. Since that day, others have joined me. We protect the innocent too afraid to fight back. So we gladly do it for them."
Andrew couldn't believe what he was hearing; it was too much. He slipped back into another deep sleep as Keith continued to tell his mythic tale.
For several days, Andrew awoke to the smell of cooked meat and fresh bread, but never saw his friend again. He just kept eating and sleeping. Somebody was obviously checking in on him, keeping the fire going. Twice a day a jug of water would appear on the table, and every evening a mug of ale to accompany his supper.
On the fourth day, when he awoke the fire was nearly extinguished. He found that his strength had finally returned to his body, allowing him to walk over to the woodpile. Even though he felt much better, his vitality quickly diminished against such a mundane task. Carrying one log at a time over to the hearth, the dry wood ignited effortlessly. The crackling sound was rapidly followed by flickering flames as the embers ignited the fuel hungrily, sending a warm wave throughout the room.
Andrew felt strong!
He sat at the table and devoured the bowl of meat and loaf of bread.
Andrew felt barbaric!
He picked up the shield, letting the weight of the wooden object settle in his grasp.
Andrew felt fierce!
He walked outside to find his friend Keith sat around the fire with six other men dressed in elaborate Viking garb. As he approached, all eyes were glued to him.
"Ragnor! I am ready." Andrew tried his best to sound gruff.
"Welcome, Brother Jarvik!" Ragnor stood up and embraced his brother with a hearty handshake and rough embrace. "This is your Viking name, by which your enemies shall know you. Friends, this is Andrew."
One by one, the other Vikings embraced him as if he was their brother. A tall, brawny man shoved a mug of homemade ale into his hands. It was bitter, but had a subtle hint of honey to it.
"It's mead, brother." The man wore a grey tunic underneath a chainmail breastplate, with dark brown pants and large wool boots with animal furs lining the top.
For the next several days, his brothers taught him everything he needed to know. One man showed him the basics of being a blacksmith; another showed him how to use his shield against an undead foe. Another man taught him the finer points of wielding an axe. Ragnor taught him how to hunt with a bow and arrow.
His name was now Jarvik. He was a strong, fierce, barbaric Viking warrior led by his king, Ragnor. This would be his greatest role of all time, his swan song.
That was over a week ago, and today's task involved searching the nearby village of Deer Lake for any food and supplies they could gather. He was to lead a horse drawn carriage down the Viking Trail and gather as much food, beer, and other supplies as their gods would see fit. It would take him days to reach Deer Lake, and so two of his fellow brothers would accompany him from afar in case he ran into any trouble. It was also his responsibility to make contact with the growing group of survivors the other scouts had been tracking over the last few weeks. This was his final test to prove
he was worthy of carrying the shield of a true warrior; he needed to prove he could triumph over the forces of evil.
"Good luck, Brother Jarvik!" Ragnor patted his back; every time his hand landed on Jarvik's leather tunic it sent a loud, booming slap through the air. "Glory to the brave!"
"I shall return after I talk to Frank in Howley. I know he's a good man, he could help us survive, King Ragnor." Jarvik headed up to his seat and clothed the leather ropes in his hands. He gave them a strong tug and the two horses began to pull the cart down the old highway towards Deer Lake.
CHAPTER FOUR:
LEFT TO DIE
Eric and Jason escorted the stranger, following the footsteps of mysterious man to the parking lot outside. As they walked, the unknown wanderer told them about how the soldiers stole the ambulance, and left Nick to die.
Once outside, the brightness of the daylight was a sharp contrast to the musty, gloomy interior of the police station. It took a moment for Eric's eyes to adjust, but the dangerous situation was evident. Nick lay in a crumpled heap on the pavement, and the ambulance was nowhere to be seen. Frank took his men and rushed towards his truck, securing an escape route for them. Just on the edge of the parking lot was a swarm of the undead, moving steadily towards them.
The ghastly moans grew loader as they closed in on their prey, saliva spraying from their jaws and their blackened fangs snapping together, as if someone had rung their dinner bell. Eric raised his gun and lined up a headshot for one of the snarling, drooling faces as it shambled towards Nick.
Before Eric could pull the trigger, the stranger smashed the wooden shaft of the pickaroon across Eric's hand, the attack sending a sharp pain shooting up his arm that caused him to drop the gun. The handgun skidded across the asphalt while Eric tried to shake the pain from his hand. "What did you do that for?" Eric bent over to retrieve the gun.
"You fire that thing here, you'll bring more of those creatures right on top of us!" The stranger sprang into action before Eric had a chance to respond.
Seven zombies had gotten dangerously close to Nick, and the stranger swiftly sprung into action. The man moved like a ballerina, but had the ferocity of a vicious heavy weight boxer as he expertly wielded the pickeroon. First, he sent a ferocious, savage thrust into a lumbering creature’s eye socket. The scrawny woman let out a hideous shriek, its muscles violently twitching before the stranger extracted the metal spear, the corpse tumbling to the ground in an awkward heap. In another smooth motion, he drove the curved blade into the skull of another reanimated figure. The air around him seemed to explode into a thousand droplets of red carnage, evidence of the slaughter soiling his sweater.
Eric and Jason rushed forward to join in the massacre, but before they reached the action, one zombie had almost reached Nick and it lunged the remaining distance toward its unconscious victim. Out of nowhere, the hooked blade dug into the creature’s upper leg and with one abrupt motion, yanked the assailant off its feet. The monster’s nose erupted in an explosion of blood as it slammed into the pavement. Without hesitation, the stranger drove the sharp end of the pickaroon deep into the softened skull with a sickening thunk. Watching this man was like watching some grotesque ballet of death -- it was like he had the whole scene choreographed.
Jason rammed the butt end of the old hunting rifle into the back of a zombie’s skull with authority, splitting it wide open. A flow of red opened up from behind the thick matted hair, the greasy fluid running down the creature’s shirt. Eric took his old police baton out and cracked it against a zombie’s skull, sending a shocking convulsion through the cadaver’s sickly body, before it crumpled to the ground, its limbs twitching while the life left its body for the last time.
Eric was forced to duck as the bladed end of the pickaroon stabbed forward in his direction. It wasn't until he turned around to see the pickaroon buried in the chest of the zombie, that he realized it had clutched onto his jacket. Blood seeped through the wound in its chest, absorbing into the filthy cotton rags that clung to its body. The stranger held off the zombie with the pickaroon, keeping it from grabbing Eric again. With a strong, upwards thrust, Eric drove the baton into the zombie’s chin, shattering its jaw. As teeth and blood spilled from the gaping hole in the creature's mouth, Eric drove the baton into the side of the monster’s skull, sending it spiralling in a complete circle down hard into the pavement.
"Thanks!" Eric tried to thank his saviour, but before he knew it, the stranger raised the deadly weapon above his head and drove the curved blade down into the skull of the last immediate threat lurking close enough to give them any problems.
"Eric, help me get him up!" Jason shouted out as he shouldered the weight of their unconscious friend.
Eric rushed over to help as the rumble of a truck's engine roared towards them. The truck sent two wayward zombies crashing into the ground as it drove over the shambling creatures. Blood and gore spilled over the pavement as the tires crushed the fragile bones of the two walking corpses. Their mangled frames tried to keep moving, as shattered bones tore through flesh in a disgusting display of their unrelenting desire to feed.
The stranger helped Jason and Eric load Nick into the bed of the truck. The eerie moans grew louder as more zombies poured out of the forest behind the police station. The lawn was littered with the undead freaks as they shuffled towards them, gaping jaws snapping at them. These zombies appeared to be headed straight for them, more aware of their surroundings. They even seemed to be avoiding trip hazards below their feet. Even though they weren't moving much faster than the first zombies they had just encountered, this larger group seemed to have a greater purpose, which guided them as a single group.
Frank screeched the tires, roaring out of the parking lot and pulling onto the road, driving away from the police station. He was heading towards a giant pillar of smoke just beyond the old school -- it seemed to be coming from the hockey stadium just behind it.
The stranger rapped on the window to get Frank’s attention. "Don't go that way, it's only going to be worse there!" he warned.
"Where should I go?" Frank had pulled the window of the truck open.
"Head towards the paper mill for now!" The man pulled down his hoody, revealing his bald head and the fresh stubble that had started to grow back.
Frank pulled the window closed and turned the truck in the direction of the bay towards the paper mill. The box of the cab bounced up and down with every bump in the road
Eric rubbed his knuckles; the pain in his hand from the smack earlier had turned into a dull, throbbing pain. "Who are you?"
"The name's Hank!" Hank removed the bandana from his face, revealing his handsome smile and iron jaw line. His features seemed to be carved from stone, his smooth skin like polished marble. Even underneath the black hoody, Hank's athletic frame was apparent. His slender frame was layered with brawny muscles and thick sinew.
Instantly Eric recognized the man as Hank MacDonald, the legendary actor who had actually made it from Corner Brook all the way to Hollywood. He lived the dream life, one of the biggest names on the big screen until he ruined his life with drugs and by getting into trouble with the law. Now it all made sense: his choreographed action sequence was just like something out of one of his movies. Hank had once played the great Spartan king and had been trained in several different arts of war.
"Nice to have you back, Hank." Eric was still trying to catch his breath, his adrenaline levels still through the roof.
CHAPTER FIVE:
ABANDONED PAPER MILL
Frank pulled up next to the security gate at the old paper mill. The little booth where the security guard usually worked was a cluttered mess. Papers and shattered glass were strewn about the booth, but there were no signs of blood. Whoever worked there must have made it out of that confined space alive, but there was no telling how far they had made it. Frank had been surprised by how barren the streets had seemed as he drove down Mt. Bernard Avenue towards the mill, but it was even more alarming ho
w quickly the noise of the truck drew out the shambling corpses.
"Someone want to go out and lift up the gate?" Frank pushed the window open at the back of the cab.
"I'll get it." Hank hopped out of the bed of the truck and hurried into the old guard hut.
The gate quickly popped up and Hank motioned them through. As Frank inched the truck further into the parking lot, he asked, "Why do you think he brought us here?"
"No idea." Eric seemed as puzzled as Frank.
"He must know something," Jason added.
As Frank rolled the old ford past the gate, the brakes creaked loudly and the gate shuttered closed behind them. Now that they were inside, he noticed disfigured bodies scattered all around the premises, and it made him uneasy. Frank kept his guard up; he needed to be ready if this was a trap.
Hank hopped over the side of the truck and back into the pan. "Drive up to that old, red brick building.” Hank pointed towards an old building just ahead. The red bricks looked worn and damaged by the weather while green moss with burgundy leaves scaled the front. A massive pile of old metal and wood scrap barricaded a giant green door big enough to drive a transport truck through.
"Why, what's in there?" Eric didn't like the look of the building, and his suspicion came through in his voice. It seemed like it had outlived its time and was ready to collapse on itself at any moment.
"That's the old wood room. Some people have secured that building. It's safe enough for now." Hank patted the side of the truck as if it were a horse. "It's a good place to rest until your friend comes around."
Frank eased the truck towards the building, careful around the old bark and broken branches that bounced the truck around. The ground was full of deep, muddy ruts made by the heavy tire tracks of the tractors that used to drive through here on a regular basis.
"They have the main door barricaded with all of that scrap metal. The only other entrance on the ground level is locked. I'll head up that ladder, come down and unlock it. You wait here." Without waiting for a response, Hank hopped down into the mud and made his way towards an old rusty ladder that led up straight up to the roof.
Zombies on the Rock (Book 2): The Viking Trail Page 3
