by Spriggs, Kal
***
Jack was ten miles south, almost to the compound when the blast lit up the night.
“Floor it!” He shouted into the open cab of Brian's truck. All of the scout trucks raced forward. Ahead, he saw a guard post of some kind and the white faces of men there. Before they could ready themselves, Brian swept the truck past and Jack and others dropped from the sides, rushing the two guards.
One man fumbled with his weapon while the other tried to get to their radio. Jack fired his shotgun from point blank, blasting the one man between the shoulder blades. The deer slug made enough of a mess of the corpse's torso that he wasn't worried about it rising.
Johnny Woodard took down the second man and they swept over the site quickly, grabbing up weapons and equipment and then running for the truck. Jack threw an M240 machine gun and the two cases of ammunition in the bed of the maintenance truck and slapped the sides, even as he mounted the running boards, “Drive on.”
***
Tim Kennedy grinned as the train bulled through the barricade on MacArthur Bridge, shoving the car hulks out of the way and then continuing along the tracks. The fireball was his signal to drive the train into town. Tim tried not to think too much about how Paul or someone else had just given their life. He tugged down on the horn and looked at Robert Brockman, “I love doing that.”
“I'm sure your newborn son isn't a big fan,” Brockman replied dryly, holding his hands over his ears.
Tim's grin turned sheepish as he considered that. “Yeah... you're probably right about that.” He let off on the horn and focused on driving the train. He just hoped that things were going well elsewhere.
***
Nidal Malik, Lord Protector of the New Land, cowered in his basement hiding spot as he heard gunfire and shouts erupt outside. He clutched at his pendant, half wishing that the Hand of God would come to save him and half hoping that the Hand of God never learned of his failures.
This was a disaster. He clutched at his chest, wondering how this had happened, wondering how his God had let it happen. Was this some righteous punishment for his doubts? Yet why destroy all that he had built? Why not simply smite him down and rise another in his place?
Malik didn't understand it. Was not Meslamtaeda all-powerful? Why did he allow these pathetic humans to defy him... unless he wasn't all-powerful. But that meant that Nidal had been deceived. That he had done things... done terrible things, for a being that wasn't a true God...
Malik didn't know what was worse and as he crouched, too frightened to do anything, as he struggled to find answers.
***
Jack hopped off the truck and ran into the Lord Protector's palace. Other soldiers were headed to the worker's barracks and the zoo, to save what people they could. The lobby was empty, either Malik's guards had run or they'd gone out to fight. Either way, Jack didn't care, “This way,” he snapped out, leading the team down the corridor and then to the stairs.
Some part of him wanted to hunt down Malik himself, but that was secondary. The main thing was to make certain that Malik wouldn't be a threat... and it was the weapons and manpower he had that made him a threat.
Jack led his team to the armory in the basement and, like the lobby above, there were no guards outside the doors. The armory itself was locked, two heavy padlocks over a metal bar outer door and locks on the door itself. That wasn't a problem.
“McCune,” Jack snapped.
The salvager gave a big grin as he stepped forward with the big bolt-cutters. It only took him a few seconds to remove the padlocks, then he shouldered his bolt cutters and reached a hand back. Jack passed him his hooligan tool and the salvager worked at the door frame for a second, then gave a grunt.
The hasp on the metal door popped and the door swung open. The gleaming racks of weapons and looming boxes of ammunition awaited beyond.
“Jackpot,” McCune grinned.
Jack nodded back to the rest of his team, “Let's clear the loading ramp. McCune, cover this door.”
They moved down the corridor quickly, pausing here and there to check side doors for any threats. At the loading dock, Jack half expected to see a mass of undead, much like the last time, but tonight it was empty. He and Warrant Knighton hurried over to open the big rolling doors. As they did so, he froze though. Three big, armored vehicles sat outside. They were off, the motors silent, the lights off.
They were just sitting there... waiting.
Jack began to grin. He spoke into his radio, “Brian, change of plan. We won't need your truck, after all, but we are going to need three drivers and some extra hands to help us load up...”
***
“Alright boys and girls,” Johnny Woodard bellowed at the cowering civilians in the worker's barracks, “Let's go! This is your chance at freedom!”
Most of them stared at him in shock. A few of them looked like they wanted to hide under their beds or something. Sheep... It wasn't their fault. Malik had probably killed anyone brave enough to stand against him.
Try a different tactic. “I said move!” Johnny bellowed. “The train is waiting but it ain't waiting long! Anyone who isn't out of here in thirty seconds is getting left for zombie chow! Move out!”
The tone of his voice and the threat got them moving. A woman and her children started to lead the way, but a big man in stained coveralls started to cut them off, pushing the woman back and making for the door.
Johnny caught the man by the shoulder. “Ladies and children first,” He clarified in a harsh voice.
“But...” the worker's eyes bulged as Johnny squeezed. He dropped to one knee and gasped in pain.
Johnny looked at the woman, “Ma'am?” He gestured towards the exit.
She and her kids hurried out the door, the rest of the workers started out in a more moderate pace, letting the women and children lead the way. Johnny let his involuntary companion go, as well.
The train awaited only a mile to the south. They didn't have the trucks to move so many people, but the scout trucks would load up as many of the children and sick as possible. The rest would have to walk.
Johnny glanced down the way, at where a team was ransacking the storage area, grabbing bags of rice, flour, and corn meal. He just hoped they were able to get enough food, because feeding this many people was going to be something of a nightmare.
***
The gunfire had stopped. The night had gone quiet and it was sometime at the darkest part, the hours before dawn that always seemed the longest. Nidal Malik still crouched in his hidden spot, his heart still thundering in his chest, his breathing labored.
Nidal noticed the temperature dropping, first. It happened quickly, his breath fogging and then the tips of his fingers tingling and burning. He shied away from the wall as hoarfrost crept over it.
He heard deep footsteps, each one falling with a ponderous weight that seemed to make the entire building tremble. Nidal cowered back as those footsteps approached, closer and closer, until they finally stopped.
Something powerful caught the door to his hidden room and ripped it off its hinges. The metal shrieked as it tore, screws and bolts popped out of the concrete with metallic pings. The Hand of God threw the door, frame and all, to the side, and then he stood there, staring at Nidal Malik.
“You have failed me,” the terrible voice said. “You have failed your God, but worse, you have failed me.”
Nidal cowered back, “I am sorry, Great Emissary, they came in such strength, they killed my people and--”
“You did not have the courage to face them yourself, to take the fight to them?!” the Hand of God demanded. “Nor did you use the gifts I have given you! I should never have relied upon you to do my work!”
The small sliver of doubt that had risen in the back of Malik's mind rose to the forefront. He had tortured, he had murdered, he had done terrible things, all on the orders of the Hand of God, all on the presumption that to do otherwise was to court not just death, but utter damnation. Had he been wrong, had
he been deceived?
Malik stood. He knew he would die. He knew that and while it terrified him more than anything he could comprehend, he needed to know the truth, “Why didn't you come?” Nidal asked. “If you are so mighty and powerful, then why did you not face them yourself?”
The Hand of God actually stepped back. The looming darkness around him seemed to shudder for a moment... almost in fear? Malik could feel the terrible being considering him, watching him, reevaluating him. “You are not armed,” the deep, terrible voice spoke.
“No,” Malik said.
“Then you are nothing,” the Hand of God snapped. Its powerful arm lashed out and caught Nidal by the throat and lifted him into the air. He fought that arm, fought the terrible grip, yet he might as well have tried to bend steel or break rock. The terrible cold of the creature numbed him almost instantly and then, the inky darkness swept into his body.
For one terrible moment, Malik saw himself as the Hand of God did... as a tiny spark of light against the darkness of the universe. He was a speck, a gnat, almost insubstantial... but that light also made him tasty. He was a snack to the Hand of God. Nothing more. He could never be anything more.
As the darkness poured into his body, consuming his very soul, Nidal Malik realized that this had never been about God. It had been about food. The Hand of God wasn't an emissary to convert mankind, he merely wanted to gather them together so they would be easier to consume.
***
Chapter Eighteen
The day was bright and surprisingly cool as the train pulled to a stop southwest of St Louis. Jack stared back across the distance to the city, watching smoke rise up from sections of it that were still on fire. The big explosion had ignited a number of buildings and those fires had spread rapidly. Much of the city had caught fire, which had made their final escape interesting to say the least.
“Good riddance,” Shaw muttered from behind him.
“What?” Jack asked.
The tall, black man spat over the side of the car. “Something was rotten about that place even before all this. Fire is good, maybe it'll burn out some of the stains.”
Jack thought about the Hand of God. He didn't know if fire would be enough to defeat a creature like that. Though the thermite, at least, was enough to hurt it.
“Let's go see what it is that we've got,” Jack said. He walked forward and then climbed down. Tim Kennedy was reading through lists already. Josh Wachope was coming back from setting a security perimeter, and Shaw was sorting the train's newest residents, finding those with useful skills. All is as it should be.
Tim was looking both worried and excited, “Ammunition, weapons... trucks... do we have parts for these trucks? They look different than anything we have...”
“They'll run on diesel, so that should help as far as our fuel situation,” Jack said. The three armored trucks didn't really fit into a role they needed, not yet, but Jack was sure they could find a role for them. If nothing else, they could drive along the tracks with the advance party to search for any threats. “We found some crates in the armory that looked like vehicle parts. We brought it all, so hopefully we can keep them running for a while.”
If they'd had Paul, Jack knew it wouldn't have been an issue. The machinist would have been able to make whatever they needed. Jack felt sad as he thought that. Paul had died as he had lived, thinking of others, helping them all to survive.
“Anyone else think the trees down here are kind of... spooky?” Josh Wachope asked.
The rest of the group looked around. The forest was oddly still, Jack noticed. There were no sounds of birds or the rustle of animals in the undergrowth. In fact, it was as still and quiet as St Louis had been.
“Weird,” Jack said. He looked at Robert Brockman, “Let's take a look at the maps, and see how far--”
“Captain!” Luis Cedano rushed over, “Captain, you need to hear this, it's great news!”
“What?” Jack asked.
“Chattanooga is back on the air. They said they fought off some kind of huge undead attack... they said there were raiders working with the undead, like we saw from Malik here in St Louis. And when they came back on the air, there's a half dozen more, they've been talking all morning, Texas, the Free Western States... dozens of radios, people talking about weird stuff they've seen, monsters, undead bigger than a house...”
“Nightwalkers?” Jack asked, still not certain where he came up with the name.
“Yeah,” Luis nodded, his expression confused, “Yeah, there's been a few reports of nightwalkers... what's a nightwalker?”
“I'm not really sure,” Jack answered. His gaze went back to the distant smoke clouds of St Louis. “But I have an idea.”
***
Jack wasn't certain what it was that awoke him. The grumble of the train didn't allow him to hear much more than the groans of the cars and the rumble of the wheels on the track. But there was something else. Something that made the hair on his arms stand up and sent him rolling out of the narrow bed he shared with Katie Madison.
His hand clasped on the hilt of his blade and he rose to a crouch. As he did so, he caught the faintest hint of motion in the dark. Yet as he raised his arm to strike, something moved with viper speed and caught his right hand by the wrist and then his neck. Icy cold fingers held him and slammed him back against the wall of the car so hard that his blade flew from his hand and he hung there, stuck against the wall as if he were some wayward child who'd been snatched by an adult.
“Zamora,” a voice hissed. Jack could hear shouts elsewhere and someone had lights up, just enough for Jack to see a twisted profile. Nidal. Jack realized with shock. Yet it wasn't the would-be Lord Protector... not really.
“I lost everything,” Nidal hissed. “You took everything and I lost my very soul...”
Someone fired a shotgun, loud and powerful in the confined space of the train car. The heavy deer slug ripped through Nidal's torso, spattering Jack with bits of dead flesh... yet the zombie didn't seem to notice. His iron grip still held Jack rigidly.
“Hold your fire,” Jack gasped. Half because he didn't want to take a round, but half because Nidal somehow had some mind, some intelligence... and Jack needed to know how that was possible.
“He consumed me...” Nidal gasped, his dead lips slurring the words. “Consumed my very soul. We are nothing to them, nothing but tasty morsels. They will devour our entire world and the fortunate will live as livestock...” Nidal's voice lost focus, his dead, unblinking eyes seemed to stare through Jack.
“What are you?” Jack gasped.
“I am... I am hungry, so hungry... but he sent me to warn you. To tell you that you cannot run, that he will seek you out, wherever you go, no matter how far you run... and this will be your fate,” Nidal's gray face twisted, his expression filled with terror and pain. “And for all eternity you will be his servant, as I will be as well, when he puts the spark of soulfire back inside your breast and uses you to slaughter the living.”
To Jack's shock, the zombie released him and stepped back. His head sank to his breast. Dead fingers felt at the massive hole in his chest, probing the gaping wound and the jagged bits of rib that poked through his dead flesh. Nidal looked up. “There is no escape. There is not even death, for he can bring us back from that.”
“Let's see him bring you back from this,” Josh Wachope growled from behind the zombie. He wrapped a cable around the zombie's neck, then tugged it back and shoved at the now-open doors.
Nidal's dead face showed the briefest emotion as the cord tightened around its throat and dragged it back down under the train's wheels: relief. Then there was a splatter of dead flesh being ground under the train's wheels and he was gone.
***
"Hello!" Jack shouted on the megaphone. "I know you're in there you big, ugly, undead monster, come on out!" It had taken him several days to make the preparations and then to return to St Louis... but he wasn't about to leave a job undone. Especially not with Nidal's war
ning hanging over his head. Time to get this over with. “I said come on out you soul-sucking bastard!”
Jack waited a minute and then the doors to the Basilica opened. Standing the shadows of the doorway was the Hand of God. The ten-foot tall undead monster was jet black, his flesh darkened and stained with evil, the ragged cloak of darkness that hung over his frame seemed almost insubstantial, recoiling from the full light of day. The afternoon light shone down like a barrier across the threshold of the former church and Jack smiled a bit as he stared at the monster. "What, afraid of a little sunlight?"
"I can have an army of undead here before you can so much as attempt to flee," the Hand of God snarled. "Have you come here to bend your knee to Meslamtaeda? Do you realize now that I will direct his wrath upon you? Do you think that if you abase yourself, that I will spare even one of you? I have seen the failure of his high priest and as his voice on this fallen world, I realize that only with the extinction of all life will this world be properly cleansed." Behind the monster, Jack could see hundreds, possibly thousands of zombies building in the main floor of the church. He knew that if he gave the Hand of God time, that it would summon more from the basements and underground garages throughout the city. Or at least, from the sections of it that hadn't burned to the ground. Millions of undead, gathered and prepared as an army to slaughter the living.
"I got your message," Jack's smile faded. Though the zombie Nidal had not killed Jack, it had killed two of his people on its way to reach him. It could have killed Jack or Katie, but it seemed this hellish creature wanted to make him fear it. That's too bad, Jack thought to himself.
Jack lifted up the megaphone, "I've got a message for you in return. Now, I don't know much about ancient gods and high priests, but I'm a follower of the Church of High Explosives." He smiled, "Let me read to you from my holy book."
The Hand of God stared at him with cold, dead eyes. It took an advancing step forward, its pointed teeth jutting from its broken lips, the black skin drawn tight in a snarl of hate. It hesitated, though, at the doorway, the sunlight a more effective barrier than any physical wall.
