by Mark Tufo
Everything I was coming to learn about zombies would have led me to believe they were of a collective—that self didn’t exist. If that were the case, how would they ever notice one missing? Surely an ant colony never went and looked for a lost worker; my guess was they never even thought about each other, or themselves for that matter. They did what they did for the good of the entire colony. The groans grew louder, like maybe Fred just hadn’t heard them. There were bursts of groans, then again pure silence and no movement. Take five fucking guesses what happened next—go ahead, I’ll wait. The clouds that had been threatening to scrub the dirt of this world away with rains of biblical proportion parted just in time for the half moon to make its debut. Any other setting, it would have been damn near idyllic. Right now, not so much.
Started running back the way I’d come, which was all great and fine and what I needed to do—until I realized that not all the zombies had joined in the search party. More than a few had hung back just in case something like this happened. This level of hunting, it was as haunting as it was impressive. Again I found myself running parallel to the way I wanted to go. The zombies in the field had by now figured out what was going on and were in pursuit. My rifle was bouncing on my chest, which I hardly noticed, though I figured that by the end of the night I was going to have a healthy bruise on my sternum—if I made it, which right now was hovering around fifty-fifty.
I’d been at a flat-out run for over ten minutes and it was starting to show; catching a breath was becoming harder and harder to do. Far off in the distance, I could see the twinkling of streetlights from Valhalla. It was difficult to reconcile the relative normalcy they were experiencing this evening with the fight I was having to maintain a hold on my life.
“What the shit.” I hitched out. I could just make out a small outcropping ahead—that was it, that was where I would turn and go on the offensive. Stepped on the first large boulder wishing I had decided to pull up sooner—there was a good five-foot drop off on the other side. I landed awkwardly, my lumbar or something equivalent twanged in protest at the ill treatment I was giving it. We’d have a talk later, I’m sure. I spun and brought my rifle up, happy to have a place to rest it—with the way I was heaving for air, getting a clean shot off would have otherwise been impossible. Even with the impromptu brace, headshots on a speeding target were not going to be easy. I was trying to catch my breath while also trying to control my breathing, which worked about as well as one might expect. Would have been better off trying to golf underwater.
I fired, not remembering that my scope was off. The only saving grace was they were beginning to pack tight as they honed in on their target. Nailed the one behind and off to the side. In the friggen forehead to boot. Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good.
“Jack, I sure could use you now,” I said as I ripped the scope off and did my best to pick up a target through the steel. The moon illuminated my front sight post very nicely. Sure the fucker had exposed me at the worst possible time, but right now it appeared to be trying to atone for its earlier transgression. But really how do you come back from something where you tried to kill another? My bad, didn’t mean to try and rip off your balls with a rusty rake, here’s a granola bar, that isn’t going to cut it. The only thing I had going for me was they were close. Not really a boon, but you work with what you have. I appreciated the fact that they were coming straight on, but a head shot at night on a bobbing target was not easy to accomplish. I was going to burn through my ammo long before I made a big enough dent.
I was constantly twisting from side to side, firing controlled shots, arcs of blood illuminated as they flew high into the air, taking on a silvery hue in the moonlight. Some zombies stumbled and fell over their brethren, others deftly sidestepped the fallen. It was rapidly getting to the point where I had to decide to run again or hold out here for as long as I could. Either way ended up with bite-sized pieces of me sliding down the gullets of the infected.
“I’m”—fired, blowing the top portion of a skull clean off—“tired”—this shot lower on the next zombie but punched through the cheek, sending it spiraling to the ground—“of”—my next shot in the shoulder of the nearest zombie, I lost precious seconds I could not recoup readjusting—“running!” His head snapped back as I drilled him a new nostril.
I ducked down as the first zombie to breach my line in the sand flew over my head, its arms outstretched as it tried in desperation to get hold of some part of me. It landed badly and with a satisfying crunch, though I’m pretty sure it was an arm or a leg that broke, not its fucking neck. My rifle was nearly knocked from my hands as the next zombie ran straight into my barrel; luckily, I’d fired not a split second beforehand—the bullet blew through its head, sending a spray of bone and tissue behind it, coating the next one with enough material to blind it for a moment. I moved a step to my right as the blinded one ran by and fell into the dirt not five feet from me. I was going to have to deal with the ones behind soon enough, just wasn’t sure when I was going to pull the time from my extremely busy schedule to do so.
I kept pivoting, dodging, firing; at one point I butt stroked a zombie as I fumbled with the fresh clip … magazine, I mean magazine! Didn’t overly care about the correct vernacular in an active fire zone. I was wincing, but more from the expected pain of a bite. How long would I be alive once they started in on me? A few seconds? A minute? The shock of being devoured alive would seem to last for hours, I would think. I was not looking forward to it. I’d just released the bolt when I felt a hand grasp my waist—it was the end game. I had hoped I would die peacefully at home surrounded by my family and friends, not alone in a hostile, alien world. There was more than a good chance that no one would even know what happened to me. Back at home, there wouldn’t even be the slightest clue to my whereabouts. Tracy and the rest would hold out hope that at some point I would walk through that door, only to have each passing day be one more sadness cutting slowly deeper into their souls.
“Fuck you!” I slammed my rifle backward and felt a spray of snot and blood on my hand, not sure if the hit was enough to kill it. Two zombies had simultaneously launched at me, I could not dodge both as I fired—this was it. The one on the left fell short as I forcibly opened up its forehead chakra; no light illuminated the dark opening. The hand of the zombie on the right punched into my cheek, thrusting my head to the side, and then, instead of being forced to the ground, I whipped my head back only to see the zombie magically hovering in the air.
I didn’t have enough time to process what was going on as the zombie swung violently around and crashed into the next in line. It was then I realized something was pressing into the back of my skull. For the briefest of moments, I thought someone had a gun to me. Seems it was not technically a gun, though I suppose it could shoot something. Yup, had Kalandar’s junk pushing into the back of my head with nothing more than a loincloth between us. Was going to be tough forgetting about this. Sure, I was happy for the help—just not that happy.
He was swinging the zombie he’d caught like a major league baseball player would if they wanted to hit a home run. The first contact would have been clean out of any ballpark as two skulls collided. Both heads caved in from the contact as he swung through, the shoulders of the zombie he was swinging catching the next in line to send it toppling head over heels.
“I thought I might find you in a troublesome position,” he laughed as he kept up with his batting practice. He made it sound as if I’d been caught with a joint by the local police. The zombie he was using as a weapon was rapidly deteriorating as the bones throughout its entire structure were snapped and broken. A few more colossal collisions and he might as well be slinging around wet noodles. He hurled what was left into a group of approaching zombies, knocking them down like bowling pins. He moved to the side to grab another zombie and the insanity resumed anew. He now had a zombie in each hand and was swinging them around spasmodically. I imagined him as an eight-year-old kid in his first fistfight,
just pinwheeling his arms, attempting to hit anything that got in his way, except Kalandar was using zombies to do the hitting.
I cannot express how thankful I was for the timely help, but getting pelted by falling teeth, having clumps of hair and scalp flutter down, and the sprays of blood would have been nice to avoid. Kalandar was on his fifth or sixth set of clackers. If you don’t know what those are, they were a toy from back in the 70s that I’m thinking should have been banned. Basically two glass globes attached by a string that, yup, you guessed it, you clacked together. What toy-making CEO packed with wisdom thought this was a good idea? Must have been a Darwinist because only the strong survived its use. Kal was smacking those zombies together and anything that got caught in the middle was reduced to a mushy pulp.
“I think it might be for the best if we depart this area,” Kalandar said. I spared a glance to notice his chest heaving with exertion. We’d created a killing field and were given a small area to call our own, but there were still more than enough zombies to finish the job. I was getting dismally low on ammunition, and Kal on energy. Even still, just the idea of running again made my joints hurt.
I needn’t have worried. I was picked up quickly, terrified for a second that I was going to be his new device of destruction, and then we were off. The ride was about as comfortable as if I’d hopped on a three-legged camel. My eyes were bobbing around and I was in real danger of getting motion sickness. I would have tumbled less in a washing machine. For as tired as the demon had seemed while he was fighting, he didn’t pause at all during our escape. My body ached from the jarring and jolting, my joints bending and flexing with each stride. After a while, I couldn’t take it anymore.
“You have to let me down.” It sounded like whining—I’ll go with “begging” to save some self-respect.
We went another couple of minutes, I think it took him that long to slow and stop, kind of like a jumbo jet touching down on a runway. He dropped me to the ground like a weary traveler will their carry-on luggage after finally getting home. Leaves and pine needles stuck to every part of me. Kalandar walked over to a tree to brace himself as he bent over and began to suck in great drafts of air. Did a quick scan of the area we were in, couldn’t see any zombies.
“Thank you,” I told Kalandar.
He did not respond, odds were he’d not even heard me over the sound of his heavy breathing.
“Does the other still live?” he asked after a while.
“He was alive when I left.” That was the best answer I could give. If any part of this horde had found him, wasn’t much he was going to be able to do with the pistol and the shape he was in. At some point, the night had yielded and the dawning of a new day had begun. I was thinking about those stupid inspirational posters that seem to adorn every corporation’s walls. “Don’t let yesterday dictate your today,” or something along those lines. That was all that seemed to be happening—we were stuck in various shit-tastic scenarios and had to find a way not to become food for a variety of otherworldly creatures. I was done with survival mode. I wanted to press back, to make those responsible realize exactly what they were dealing with, and I was going to do that—right after I had a nap. Not sure how I fell asleep standing up or how I didn’t wake up when I fell to the ground, but the rest was welcome, and I didn’t hear Kalandar complaining.
4
Mike Talbot
“What the hell?” I asked as I pulled leaves away from my mouth, stuck there either by drool or blood. When I stood, I looked like I’d made my own gillie suit. Kalandar was sitting with his back against a tree, one eye open as he watched me.
“You ready?” I asked. I would have reached out a hand to help him up, but he would have pulled me over and down and embedded me into the ground.
“I had fun last night.” He said it like we’d gone out for drinks and a show. I said nothing, as it hadn’t really been my idea of a good time.
Besides the constant threat of death, the day itself was brilliant. The sky a deep azure, barely a cloud overhead, birds were singing their serenades, forest creatures were out and about foraging for food—Disney would have been proud of the setup. However, storm clouds looked to be brewing in the far distance. When we got back to camp, we found a nervous, profusely sweating BT.
“I … I thought I was alone,” he said, the fear evident in his voice and eyes.
“I wouldn’t leave you alone—not on purpose, anyway,” I told him. He was grateful for that, but the reality had been pretty damn close. Kalandar thrust a canvas backpack toward me, jam-packed with medical supplies and various pill bottles.
“Erectionalis? Umm, I think we can safely get rid of this one.” I tossed it into the woods; there were going to be some happy squirrels. “Hardonitis? What the hell Kalandar, what section of the store were you in?”
“There was no one in the facility I could ask. I grabbed from each area, figuring that I would eventually come upon what was needed. The town itself was preparing for a battle. A much larger column of the zombies we encountered were heading that way.”
“Opiyum? That sounds interesting.” I found a pocket to stick that one in.
“Are you kidding?” BT asked.
“Don’t judge me. Great, this one looks like antibiotics,” I said as I shook a couple out into my palm.
“Looks like?” BT asked dubiously.
“It’s called penixillion, I figure that’s close enough.”
I was surprised when he took them. It was then I noticed that it could cause severe abdominal cramping and explosive diarrhea. Made an executive decision and decided not to tell him. Spent an hour cleaning and disinfecting his wounds, which were still weeping blood and a yellowy, pus-like solution.
“The bludgeon must have used an anticoagulant,” Kalandar muttered as he watched me work. I slathered the wounds and wrapped BT up like a mummy. At some point, he’d fallen back asleep, so I had Kalandar help me manipulate him around so I could get him dressed up correctly with some of the clothes he’d grabbed.
“It was all I could find,” Kalandar said in defense as we looked down at the muumuu-clad body of BT. The merriment in his voice led me to believe otherwise. But what the hell would a demon know about cross-dressing?
“At least it’s heavy material. Should keep him somewhat warm.” I covered his legs with a small blanket Kalandar had in his pack.
“Are we planning on staying here this evening?” Kalandar asked.
“I don’t want to, but our options are limited. Unless you want to carry him around like a toddler—we could put a pouch on the front of you.”
“I would rather not.”
“Then here is where we’ll stay.”
“You are not fully grasping the concept of time slipping away.”
“You ever hear of damned if you do, damned if you don’t?”
“Well versed,” he replied. “He is but one. There is the potential that many will suffer.”
“I get the feeling you figured what the overseers were doing was right.”
“Yes, nothing should be done to prevent them from stopping the whistlers. It is what happens after that task is accomplished that I am concerned about. Overseers, as you call them, are horrible beings. If they can wield power that they think benefits them, it can be assured that they will.”
I asked the question before I truly thought about it. “And you, Kalandar, what would you do with it?”
He stepped around the answer. “We will deal with that problem should it arise.”
“Yeah, not a fan of that,” I told him.
The rest of the day and the night—for us, at least—went by uneventfully. Well, that’s not entirely true—BT’s stomach sounded like there was a war being waged. I have to admit I was happy his constitution was strong and we didn’t need to deal with the explosive sharts. Off in the distance, a real war was being fought. Kalandar and I stood on a ridge watching explosions far off on the horizon.
“Looks like the war for Valhalla is on,” I tol
d him.
“To what end?”
“You think there is some ulterior motive?”
He harrumphed, but did not elaborate. We stayed watching far into the night. It was impossible to tell if the residents of the coastal community were winning; odds were no, but it meant something that the battle continued.
The next morning, BT looked considerably better, at least color-wise. He looked horrible in a dress and he was none too pleased, constantly giving me shit about his attire.
“I didn’t pick it out. Tell him.”
“You’re the one who put me in it!” he argued.
“I guess I could have let you freeze.”
“At least I would have died with dignity.”
“Well, there’s that. You think you’re up for some traveling? Maybe we can find you some new digs.”
“Yeah, I feel better, and for that reason alone I’ll give it a go.”
The going was slow, and more than a few times BT had to excuse himself to perhaps the unluckiest hedgerows in existence.
After his third trip, he came back. “This might be the only time in my life I’m happy to be wearing a dress,” he said. “Where are we even going?”
The question stopped me in my tracks—I didn’t have a clue. We’d been waiting for Jack and Otter’s triumphant return with a helicopter, a scenario that seemed less likely as more time passed. All we really knew was the name of the place Trip had gone, but where was a complete mystery. We’d been angling toward Valhalla, but that was before the zombies decided to make it their own. Where did that leave us?
“I think I know where we need to go,” I finally said.
