by Arthur Stone
Soon he was facing a concrete wall with barbed wire on top. Insurmountable. The barrier stretched a half a mile long, and the brush ended here, so moving further along the wall meant being out in the open, something he avoided unless absolutely necessary.
It was then that Boiler noticed the truck. It wasn’t parked, like it had seemed from far away; it had crashed into the wall. The blow had been angular but still dealt impressive crushing power. He felt he should investigate and hope to find a way through, but doing so required some time out in the open, a short sprint of under two hundred feet.
There was no hole. The wall had held. But the truck offered a way up, and Boiler was fit enough to make the climb quickly. He made a beeline for the nearest industrial building, crouched by a corner, and peeked out. The quiet was only disrupted by a single crow, lazily pecking the last meat off a shredded corpse.
The cat began scratching the inside of the backpack. Boiler had tossed him in there before making his way into the city, and he didn’t like it in there. Perhaps he should be set free. Charcoal could pretty much take care of himself and would escape if Boiler ended up in trouble. But that backpack would be a death trap if he were stuck inside when things went south.
“Alright, Charcoal, I hear you. Just don’t go making any trouble.”
The cat, disgusted by the insult, looked around to ensure his audience numbered exactly one and then premiered the latest revision of his melodious serenade. Clearly he sensed nothing amiss.
Around the next corner, they found an iron ladder leading up to the roof. Boiler considered what to do. “Well, since you don’t want to sit in my backpack, stay down here. I’ll be back in a bit.”
He was talking to himself more than to the cat. Humans are social creatures and start losing their minds if they go without the sound of the human voice for too long. Letting himself hear his own voice helped.
The view from the roof was impressive. Nothing around could rival its height, except for those five-floor apartment buildings, but they were half a mile away. Boiler gave his binoculars a trial run. Cars littered the townscape, the signboard of a burnt-out store clattered in the wind, and the ground was covered with whole skeletons and pieces of their shattered cousins. Wait—what’s that? Two ghouls, looking very active. They were by a building entrance, rocking from heel to toe in their accustomed manner. They hadn’t lost their clothes. The guy had even managed to keep his pants. The other had a short skirt on. Easier to keep clean that way. They were no threat, as long as he didn’t bump into them in the open, but he made sure to memorize their location.
He saw another couple like this first one further down the street. Rocking back and forth, as usual. It looked like their habit was to stay in this position until something roused them, be it a sight, a sound, or a smell. Otherwise, their challenge was to conserve their strength as much as possible.
He saw no rafflers or bigger monsters. All visible zombies were similar to the one he had managed to kill near that grain elevator a few lifetimes ago. But he had to stay on his guard. Much of the town was not visible from this spot, and the binoculars lacked the essential X-ray functionality he’d ordered, so walls and fences blocked his view of even nearby plots.
He turned to check out the land on the other side of the building and noticed something wrong without even needing his binoculars. Just beyond the industrial area, three of the beasts stood by the corner of a row of garage doors. Rather, two stood there. The third was scratching furiously at the doors. What had caught their attention? The sound of the wind blowing across a ventilation pipe? Why was that group even there, so far from the residential area? The chances of finding food there were quite poor.
As he watched, he realized the other two weren’t just standing, either. He took a closer look through his binoculars. They weren’t rocking from heel to toe and looked restless. One suddenly jerked forward to a garage door and tried to pull it up by the loop meant for a padlock. Its intentions unrealized, it returned to its former place.
The beasts yearned to enter, but that sheet of corrugated metal was keeping them out. What was in there? There’s only one thing that perks them up. Food. And they preferred two-legged, uninfected food.
Was somebody hiding in the garage? Possibly. And if so, he was trapped. His chances of escape were approximately zero, as he had no way to take three of those things at once. They weren’t very strong yet, but their nails and teeth could inflict considerable damage. Boiler wouldn’t risk fighting even one of them in an open space without a good, strong ax with a long handle.
He observed the garage for another half an hour. Nothing changed. The beasts weren’t going anywhere and weren’t calming down. Every now and then, they’d try again—and fail again—to break in.
Maybe the trapped man was someone like Nimbler, a decent fellow happy to answer questions. Or perhaps it was some evil miser of information. But even then he’d be grateful for a little help, right? Boiler didn’t need a lot of facts, just a tip on how to reach a decent stable where he could settle down for a day or two and figure out how to begin his new life here.
If the guy or girl trapped in there was unable to take out three of these lower-level infecteds, he or she probably wasn’t doing too well in the weapons department. Meaning Boiler could hardly expect a reply spelled out with machine gun bullets. But a crossbow bolt or a knife in his back? Quite possible. He’d have to be careful.
But what else could he do? Wander around, avoiding everything and everyone? He was already a homeless bum, just one step away from a crazed vagabond who kept away from every rustling noise and flicker of light. In that state, even if he found a stable, he’d be too scared to approach anyone. No, he could not become like that.
The only loner Boiler had met during his time here was a decent guy, someone who had rescued him from a raffler. He wasn’t angry at Nimbler for abandoning him later—the situation had been a very difficult one, and he hardly expected the man to give up his life for him. His act had been selfish, sure, but by the standards of this new world it was justifiable. Nimbler owed Boiler nothing, especially not a gruesome death at the claws of a mighty beast.
The garage could not be holding a lot of people inside, or they would have thought up some kind of plan. No, there would be just one person inside. But in this world, surprises were a matter of course. His assumptions could all be wrong. It was time to go find out.
Chapter 20
The three beasts continued ravenously attacking the gate, ignoring Boiler’s approach. Charcoal had been happily ambling along behind him, but now he began to waver and lag behind, looking puzzled. Silly human, have you gone mad? Run away from here before they tear you apart. And make sure you save the stew.
Boiler still didn’t have an ax. But this wasn’t the situation for one, anyway. Even if he got up onto the garage roof, there’s no way he could hold control of its whole perimeter like he had on that much smaller shed. He’d take one of them out, but by then the other two would be up, and they were too fast and too tough for him to take two at a time. Also, his leg was troubling him again after the day’s walking. It needed rest, as if “rest” was even a known concept in this world. He could not outrun them.
The roof was a good idea nonetheless. If they charged him while he was on the ground, they’d be on him in a flash, with nothing in their way.
He looked around. The building was tall, with no visible way up, except for a vehicle he could use to jump up to the roof’s edge. “What do I do with you, cat?”
Boiler took the animal’s silence as assent to do whatever was necessary, scooped a hand under his belly, and tossed him up onto the roof. He followed, checking his gun yet another time. Five rounds in the magazine, one in the chamber. All buckshot. These beasts were early in their development—their skulls were not much stronger than human skulls, if at all. His other ammo was better saved for the more powerful monsters. For them, buckshot would inflict little more than a mild tickling sensation.
He crept to the edge and peeked over. The ghouls still stood at the door, eyes glued to it in rapt attention. They caught no sight, sound, nor scent of Boiler. By this point, their growling had turned into an impatient canine whine.
He raised the shotgun to his shoulder, took aim at the nearest zombie’s neck, and pulled the trigger. The shotgun roared and reeled. Direct hit! The beast fell, flailing its arms ridiculously as if attempting to take flight. One down.
The two remaining ex-men lost all interest in the garage door and charged at Boiler. And here they discovered his cruel prank. He was too high up for them to reach. They both jumped, and one managed to grab the roof with the tips of its fingers. Buckshot tore through its skull, dissembling its brains and knocking it to the ground with the thud of mortal finality.
Boiler paused for a split second to reflect on whether “brains” was the right word. Perhaps not.
The third realized it was unable to reach the gunman and ran along the wall, moaning frantically. But it underestimated the peril it was in, and rather than running away sought an easier way up. Boiler knocked it down with a shot to the back, but it rose again and began to climb. He finished it off with a second aimed shot, jumped down, and nearly doubled over from the pain in his leg.
He limped over to the entrance of the liberated garage, tapped lightly with the butt of his gun, and announced his arrival as he reloaded. “Hey, company!”
Silence.
“I took care of these three. Come on, open up, I know you’re in there. More of those things might be on their way, attracted by the gun noises. And they might be... a bit tougher to handle. Maybe even strong enough to rip this roof clean off. So letting your rescuer in might be a good idea.”
“Shut up already!” came a voice from inside. “Let me get this bolt open. And lose the gun.”
“So I should just leave it outside?”
“Shove it up your ass if you want, but don’t point it at me. I don’t like guns.”
“Hard pass on that first suggestion. Not really what I’m into. I’ll just sling it over my shoulder, alright?”
The door slid up partway, with a long metallic screech.
“Push it up the rest of the way now. The door, not the gun.”
“Hey, I don’t have a gun trained on you. Put yours down!” Boiler demanded.
“You think I’d have stayed stuck in here if I had a gun?”
Boiler stepped in and saw a man about forty-five years old crouched down in muddy camo pants and a greasy black tank top. Despite his relative youth, every hair on his head had gone gray. He held a loaded crossbow but thankfully was in no hurry to shoot it.
Boiler shook his head. “Somebody shoots three beasts looking to eat you, so you could show a little trust, at least.”
The man lowered his weapon and muttered a reply. “I don’t even trust myself sometimes. Get in and close the door. After your artillery show the whole cluster will be here soon.”
Boiler did as the man said. His eyes took a minute to adjust to the dark. A tiny flashlight lit up, and he could see his new acquaintance, reclining on a board stuffed in the corner of the space and covered with a heap of rags. The man was breathing heavily. “If you’re looking to kill me, well, I don’t have anything of value on me. You’d just be wasting a bullet.”
“I don’t have any shinies on me, either, in case you get any ideas.”
“You have bullets. They’re always worth something.”
“And you have a crossbow.”
“Pfft. Piece of worthless junk. So who are you?”
“Boiler.”
“I’m Fisher. So now we know each other.”
“Fisher, huh? Favorite sport of yours?”
“Before the Hive. But that’s not where I got the name. When I first came here, I was dumb as hell. Wandered around for days until I stunk to high heaven. So I undressed, hopped in a lake, and started scrubbing the filth off me with sand. Turns out I was in a stable, and the place was full of fish. They’d lost their fear of man and tickled my feet as I walked. And boy, was I hungry. So I started catching carp with my bare hands and swallowing them near whole. The whole time, this man was watching warily from the bushes, but that spectacle made him laugh out loud. Scared the absolute shit out of me.”
“So he named you Fisher.”
“Yeah. He was a good man. Good sense of humor. Until a manmincer got him. Ripped his head clean off. They say it heard him laughing and came running. The head disappeared, but the guys who found the rest of him burned his body, which is as proper a burial as you can get here. I wasn’t there to see it. Anyway, do you always help strangers out?”
“No, you’re the first.”
“I see. I’m grateful, really, I am. But your compassion will get you killed.”
“None of the beasts have shown up. There were plenty of them around—I saw them from a roof nearby. How could they not have heard my shotgun?”
“They heard it alright, no doubt about that. But we’ve been quiet since then, and a single string of sounds like that isn’t enough to keep their attention for long. They’ll start running in circles. The dumber they are, the sooner the circles will start. Then they’ll forget they heard anything at all and rock back and forth until some other noise grabs their attention. How do you not know this?”
“I’m a newcomer. There’s a lot I don’t know.”
“Yeah, right, and I’m an ex-edger.”
“Seriously. This is my third day here.”
“Were you a hunter or ninja or something before?”
“Just got lucky with the way the clusters were laid out, I guess. And I met somebody who helped me get started. For a little while, at least.”
“I see.”
“So what happened to you?”
“A trampler got me.”
“Trampler? What’s that?”
“Not really sure how to describe it without swearing noisily and profusely. What walkers have you encountered?”
“Rafflers, a manmincer, empties, and runners. I’ve figured out that you basically categorize them all based on what kinds of goodies you can get from them.”
“Most useful system there is, and easy to remember.”
“Yeah.”
“A trampler is a sporite, like rafflers but a little worse. Well, I guess ‘worse’ is subjective, eh. Stronger, faster, harder to kill. The next level up is a biter, the youngest of the peapods. A trampler’s bones have started changing and stick out of its knees, knocking hard when it runs. Hence the name, I guess. It’s the noise of death coming for you. One trampler is bad news, but they don’t like to hunt alone, preferring to travel in packs. I had time to prepare for the beast’s arrival and managed to take it out, but it dealt me a strong blow before it was gone.”
“You going to make it?”
“I should. My leg’s in bad shape, but that thing didn’t dig too deep into my side, and my ribs are somehow intact. I managed to sew up the wound. Lost a lot of blood. Stinks, doesn’t it? Then those three showed up. Maybe they were the trampler’s pack mates somehow. Or just a pack of strays. I shot the trampler, so they might’ve heard the gun. They can smell the blood, so they came before I could even collect my prize from the sporite.”
“So you were just pretending to be poor.”
“Huh?”
“You’ve got a gun after all.”
“Oh, that.” Fisher pulled a revolver out from under his rags. “It’s a Magnum. Good weapon. No bullets left now, though, took all I had to take that trampler down. The doublers charge an arm and a leg for ammo for this thing. It’s tough to find in clusters around here, and impossible to buy in stables. No sense in me walking to the other edge of the world just to reload it. You want it?”
“You’re giving it to me?”
“You helped me out of a tough spot. That’s worth something.”
“I didn’t do it for a reward.”
“Still, I don’t want to leave you poorer. You’re new here, and we’re suppose
d to look out for people like you. It’s bad luck to hurt you, even a little.”
“Not everyone is as superstitious as all that, you know.”
“You’re not wrong. Quite a few here who don’t believe, neither in God nor the devil. And when a human being has nothing sacred left to follow, he turns into a cruel creature. That’s why so many of us have become beasts. I’m going to die soon, anyway. I’m almost out of nectar.”
“Lifejuice, you mean?”
“Yeah. Nectar, ambrosia, relish, fairyjuice, lifepiss, people call the stuff whatever the hell they want. But everyone understands. We need the stuff like a car needs gas, so it’s hard to make it sound like you’re talking about anything else no matter what word you use. And I’m hurt, so I need a lot. Maybe you don’t know about regeneration yet.”
“I was starting to figure it out. I have a half-pint or so. Maybe less. I could give you some.”
“You know how to make it?”
“I did my best. Tastes terrible, but it works great.”
“You can make it with piss for all I care, as long as you use alcohol. Otherwise the spore won’t dissolve for days.”
“I used vodka.”
“Beer, whiskey, whatever. Well, if you’ll give me some of your lifewater, then, this gun is yours. You can have the crossbow, too. It’s worth more.”
“But that’ll make you weaponless.”
“What use does a garage-bound cripple have for a crossbow?”
“Fair enough. So how much lifejuice do we need each day?”
