S.T.Y.X. Humanhive

by Arthur Stone

  * * *

  The next location promised even less than the village, yet another neighborhood sprawled out throughout a forest, until Boiler spotted a grain elevator several hundred meters away, beyond the woods’ edge. This was a forgotten industrial farming complex. Perhaps a railroad had run through here, ensuring that there was good scavenging to be found. A decent number of people had lived in the neighborhoods by the farm, and the weakling ghouls had likely already been eaten, so bigger beasts could be lurking nearby. Their spores would be lurking with them, and Boiler needed spores. His head felt like a thriving colony of woodpeckers had taken up inside it, and his nausea and thirst were escalating rapidly. He had polished off his juice shortly after leaving the village.

  He dropped the bicycle at the edge of the forest, clutched his crowbar, and darted between cover on his way to the grain elevator, keeping a careful eye on the area around him. By the first fence, he found a pile of human bones, the clean-picked scattered leftovers of a monster mash. He slipped inside the half-open gate and crept around the crop fields. A large splinter on the next fence stabbed him as he crawled through it, and once again he nearly screamed in pain.

  He recovered after a few minutes and lay there, listening to his surroundings. The birds were chirping, the grasshoppers were singing, no ghouls were moaning, and nothing seemed suspicious, but that still only served to elevate his caution. What if only one beast remained here, one that had devoured everyone else? It would likely be enormous. His ax and crowbar might as well be made of tinsel.

  Another building drew his attention. As soon as he was close to it, he saw a clump of human skeletons, the largest he’d seen yet.

  The building itself was a surprise. It had two floors and was made of red brick, with a gluttony of balconies and a carefree weathercock placed on its roof. This farm had prospered, at least most of the time. When the fateful reset had happened, the owner—or perhaps some subsequent usurper of the deed—had turned the place into a fortress and tried to wait things out.

  The windows were barricaded with furniture and sandbags. The bushes and trees along the approaches to the building had been cut down to give those inside a clear view of all comers. This person’s strategy had proven futile, though, if the open door and the huge pile of bones were any indication. How could they have killed a horde of advancing ghouls? If a machine gun wouldn’t do the trick, an ax certainly wouldn’t. Some of the skulls were riddled with unmistakable bullet wounds.

  Boiler moved through the mortal mound, reached the door and stepped inside, and began to reconnoiter. This place smelled of death. The floor, like the yard, was littered with human remains. The valiant defenders of the fortress had failed to hold the line, and the battle had moved inside, but there was no way to know whose skeletons these were. They could be immunes or infecteds. Until Boiler began to notice differences between them.

  This one here is definitely an infected, with a spore sac, too. Somebody had already cut it open. Or perhaps the beast that ate all this meat ate the insides of the spore sacs, too.

  Soon he had found three more sacs, their emptiness extinguishing his excited hope he could grab some spores without confronting any undead.

  But then he saw it. A bullet casing. Then fifteen more bullets. Twelve-millimeter, meaning somebody had gone nuts with a shotgun, three dozen shots, at least. And that was just from what Boiler could see here. More had likely rolled under the furniture or been trapped under the corpses. A large ax lay near the wall, decorated with a dark red glaze that Boiler declined to think more about.

  Sadly, the actual guns were nowhere to be found.

  He searched the building. The skeletons still concealed the floor, even in the most astounding of places. He recreated various details of the tragedy. This girl locked herself in the bathroom, but the ghouls piled up against the door, and it gave way. They had rushed in and slaughtered their snack, leaving behind only a portion of a small skeleton and a colorful bow.

  The next room had a chic table with a full-size window in place of one of its walls. An empty bottle of some expensive liquor rested atop it, along with half a pot of spoiled food, and an assortment of children’s toys and miniature bones lay underneath. At that frightful sight, Boiler halted his mental reconstruction of events.

  One of the second-floor windows had been flung open, and it was the obvious route to safely flee the building and cross over to a neighboring lot, for those who didn’t mind walking along an elevated gas pipe. Instead, Boiler descended the stairs and walked along the ground to the same spot. At least one of the big brick building’s defenders had come this way; four of the familiar twelve-millimeter shells lay here, so some of their ammo had come along.

  The mystery shooter had then absconded with the gun. Where to, Boiler had no idea.

  He reentered the stronghold, carefully investigating everywhere he might find something. One of the residents had led an active life, full of hiking or something in that vein, thanks to which Boiler obtained a more comfortable backpack, an excellent pair of pants, and another jacket. Even more fortunate was a pair of shoes his size. He had ditched his mutilated sneakers in the village down the road, replacing them with new ones, but these were superior.

  The brick tomb offered him nothing more, so he set off for the grain elevator. Less than a minute away from it, the crop-lined street took a turn and grew into a small square. Through the dense bushes, he had a good look at the one-story shop and the aluminum market booth located there. Situated on the opposite side was some sort of town hall, flying a withered flag he failed to identify.

  At last, he saw some dead men. Living infecteds, that is, though he increasingly doubted these zombies could be called “living.” Two were posted by the market stand, staring across at the store, swaying back and forth from their toes to their heels but otherwise motionless. No growling, no moaning. Not a sound.

  Something suspicious cropped up in his peripheral vision, and when he looked, a pair of tense, alert, dark eyes met his. It was a cat, his co-hider in these bushes. Surprisingly large, with luxurious dark gray fur, it had obviously eaten well. But its coat was starting to get patchy, and it had a day-old wound on its head, not the kind it might have received in a cat fight.

  Strangely enough, it was here to observe, just like Boiler. The feline alternated its gaze between Boiler and the ghoulish pair, its trepidation evident. Do those things eat cats, too? If so, the pet’s fear made sense. If it had lived this long, it knew what was a threat and how to avoid it. Boiler kept his eye on the infecteds as he took off his backpack, drew out a jar of food, opened it silently, and tossed it in his mouth, using his knife as a utensil. He looked at the cat. The animal was still gazing at him, but there was no look of begging in its eyes. What, was it too proud to ask? Or was it so feral it had forgotten human generosity?

  Still, he could not withstand those eyes. He tossed the cat a sardine. After considering the situation for a moment, the cat carefully approached the treat, sniffed at it, and proceeded to consume it at woodchipper speed. He looked at Boiler again, still without a hint of begging but as if to say, “If you have any more extra food, I can help you dispose of it.” He liked this cat and had no qualms about agreeing to such terms. Soon, he had to open a second jar of food. The cat held his distance but was warming up to him noticeably, accepting Boiler as a sufficiently useful being created by the higher powers to provide food for his fluffy tribe, and thus worthy of a degree of politeness. Each piece Boiler tossed into his own mouth now evoked an insolent look from the cat, who was clearly being robbed of morsels that were rightfully his.

  The zombies abruptly left their posts and sped towards the shop door, froze in front of it, and continued rocking as they had before. Boiler was unsettled by this rapid motion. They still looked more or less like humans, but they had apparently developed a little. Meaning they could probably run. And Boiler’s leg wasn’t in the best of shape.

  Thankfully, they didn’t have any claws or pointy teet
h. Just human bodies wrapped in filthy, badly wrinkled clothes. Against a crowbar and an ax, they hardly had a chance.

  Walking out into the open would nonetheless be supremely stupid, for there could be others out there, even some hiding as he was. Making any noise at all was ill-advised, but taking care of them back on the road he’d come from made sense. He had already checked it out to make sure it was clean, and in case of trouble he’d be close to his bicycle. These two might be fast, but they couldn’t catch him on wheels.

  But I don’t know much about these creatures. What if some of them were fast enough to overtake a bike? What if some could outrun even a sports car?

  In this world, though, all who spent their days trembling and doubting were soon reduced to rattling piles of bones. He would act. “Alright, Charcoal, get ready for a show.”

  Without replying, the cat cocked his head at Boiler’s backpack. He knew where the other jars of food might be hiding, and he was not against spending some time with them.

  The ghouls’ observational skills clearly had some room for growth. Boiler stepped through the fence and into the open space, but nothing noticed him. The ghouls were looking the other way. They should have seen him out of the corner of their eyes, yet still they stood, demonstrating no reaction.

  The more you know about your enemy, the better. Why not experiment, rather than just attract them outright? First, he slowly spread his arms, then slowly lowered them. Nothing. Alright, now to jump in place. Owch. Still nothing, but not such a good idea. Pain shot through his recovering leg. He walked toward the fence and opened the gate. It creaked slightly, and one of the zombies perked up and turned around—but failed to hone in on the sound, missing him by a full forty-five degrees. Now she was staring at the corner of the house just beyond the fence, about fifty feet away from Boiler.

  She stood like that for a full minute, barely moving. The alert zombie was less than two hundred feet away. She began to stare almost directly at him, but still showed no response beyond that. He slowly spread his arms. She looked straight at him this time, still without reaction. Next, he dropped his arms sharply.

  That made the ghoul move. She came at him like an athlete looking to set a new world record. Even if Boiler’s leg had been fine, he would have had difficulty getting away.

  As soon as the first zombie broke loose, the second followed, no more than a few dozen feet behind. Both growled sickeningly, breaking their silence for the first time in Boiler’s acquaintance with them.

  Boiler stuck to his plan rather than moving down the road. These ghouls had the advantage of him on level terrain, and his hurt leg was a serious risk.

  He simply stepped through the gate, shut it behind him, and closed the heavy latch. It was a mediocre wooden barrier, sure, but it’d slow them down.

  The zombie’s dull wits drove her right into the fence, causing it to creak and shudder, and she looked through the gaps with an inhuman glare. It wasn’t a dead glare, but it wasn’t human, either. Her eyes had too much black in them, her irises were invisible, and the unnaturally swollen blood vessels arcing through her yellow corneas looked more like a colony of coral than a chain of capillaries.

  Boiler had not intended to initiate mortal combat at this spot, but the temptation compelled him. He pushed the sharp end of his crowbar into the gap, driving it right into the coral growth. But his angle was bad and failed to reach the brain itself. The beast issued a desperate moan and recoiled, then began shaking the gate frantically with no regard for its new health concerns. By now, the second had arrived and joined the break-in attempt. They were strong enough that Boiler guessed the gate latch or hinges would give way in less than ten seconds. Meaning they were as powerful as a car pulling the fence with a steel cable. Ordinary people didn’t have that kind of might.

  Limping severely, Boiler traversed to the edge of the next plot and crossed the fence. At that moment, the gate gave way, and the unhappy couple charged. The second fence failed to stop them. They made no attempt to break it down, instead jumping onto a low shed roof and climbing over that way.

  They would catch Boiler by the next fence, for sure, and yet he didn’t want to tackle two jumpers in the open. He abandoned the idea of entering the house or returning to that red farm building. There, knocking out one of them as it entered the building would be his best bet, but then the other would be inside. The beasts ran as fast as horses, and he’d only have one good chance to strike.

  So he drew inspiration from the ghouls themselves, using a stack of firewood and a sturdy grill to climb up onto a shed roof. On the way up, his leg hurt so badly as it extended that he cried out. But he didn’t slow down, not for a moment. His survival depended on speed. A moment later, he was king of the hill, enthroned on a strategically crucial shed roof.

  The young couple, meanwhile, flew into the firewood pile so enthusiastically that it toppled completely. Then they jumped together, grabbing the edge of the roof with their filthy, bulging fingers and untrimmed fingernails. Boiler already had his ax drawn. He dropped to one knee and swung, severely wounding the woman’s hand. She fell to the ground, but the man managed to heave himself up and crouched, like a frog preparing to jump.

  He took an immediate blow to the forehead from the same ax that had denied his girlfriend.

  Boiler shook the red-black blood from the ax blade, spat, and gave into the urge to utter a taunt. “Still looking to try something? Come on up, I’m waiting!”

  The ghouls were still looking, in fact, but their enthusiasm had lessened considerably. One of them moaned ceaselessly, gazing up at Boiler angrily, blood dripping from the stumps of her fingers. The other was moving towards him at a staggered crawl. An ordinary man wouldn’t have reacted that way, wouldn’t have resumed the fight so quickly, but this one seemed close to rising again.

  And he did. Boiler gave himself a mental compliment for not making his stand back by the gate. These guys were pretty tough, and one hit was not enough. They’d have jumped on him, and even though their teeth were ordinary, he didn’t want to know what their jaw strength might have accomplished.

  The zombies split up and circled the shed, one coming from his left and the other from his right. They did have some intelligence and had decided he couldn’t take them as easily from different directions. Boiler froze in the center of the roof. He held his ax in one hand, his crowbar in the other. It was a small roof, and he had to try to defend its whole perimeter, not just one side.

  They might be smart, but they coordinated their actions poorly. Why? They could have signaled each other with that moaning sound they kept making. Maybe that blow to the head one of them had suffered had done more damage than Boiler thought and slowed him down considerably. Whatever the reason, the other zombie ascended first. Two hands, one of them missing its fingers, clung to the top of the roof. Boiler struck the intact hand with such force that the ax blade bit into the roof, even into the wooden supports underneath it, severing the beast’s fingers and triggering a small explosion of blackish blood.

  Her ability to climb with two mutilated hands threw her back to the ground. That very instant, the man jumped up, but not far enough. Instead of landing on his feet, he beached his belly on the edge, like an awkward walrus half-emerged from the water. Boiler ignored his stuck ax and throbbing leg, spun around, and drove the crowbar’s tip into the fiend’s temple.

  A sickening crunch accompanied the evisceration. The creature choked on his moaning and fell on his side. He curled up his legs, trying to get up and charge, but they were still hanging over the edge and had nothing to push off of. Boiler punched the crowbar into the thing once more, this time in the back of his head, and his spore sac retched its giblets into the air. The beast cried out, shuddered, and collapsed.

  Boiler made sure he would not be getting up anytime soon. He was on his stomach, moving his legs back and forth in a prone dance macabre, his torso paralyzed.

  Now to see to the other one.

  This woman simply would
not admit the foolishness of her choice of prey. She had decided to attempt a cunning move, crawling through the fence and approaching from the neighboring lot, probably figuring Boiler would fail to notice. Someone should have taught her how difficult it was to escape noticing a one-eyed, three-fingered moaning biped covered in blood hanging onto a roof, struggling not to slip off.

  Boiler wasn’t about to chop her remaining fingers off. Then she’d never reach the roof. She’d wander the ground below, hungrily and angrily watching him, and he most definitely did not want to fight even injured jumpers in open areas.

  He stood on the roof, his crowbar ready to deal a sweeping strike. He stood motionless. Come on now, bitch, climb on up already.

  The zombie heaved one shoulder up awkwardly, then the other, and pulled her body up, her hands—or what was left of them—desperately clinging to the edge. At that instant, when she finally regained her balance and began to rise, Boiler cut into her from the side. Her moaning stopped instantly and gave way to the crunching of bone and clashing of teeth, and she fell to the shed’s roof, offering not the slightest resistant to the flurry of blows that followed. Her skull burst, and an abominable liquid gushed out.

  Boiler halted his attacks and wiped the sweat of his toil from his brow as he looked around. The noise of the bloody beating seemed not to have drawn anything. Silence reigned.

  Time to do what he came here to do.

  Chapter 14

  Just yesterday, the thought of digging around in a zombie’s entrails would have cleared his stomach faster than an ipecac overdose. But that had been Leland, not Boiler. He was a different man now, one who without hesitation grabbed his folding knife and sliced open the spore sac.

  It was empty. Completely empty. Nothing but that black cobweb-like muck. Boiler groped through it to ensure his fears were founded, then shoved the woman off the roof in frustration. He had counted on getting at least one spore from this.