“Safe path,” John mumbled. He willed his feet forward.
As they neared the wall of the undead, John stared at their gruesome faces. They were horribly rotted but still groped and groaned hungrily for the refugees. When positioned correctly, John could see the narrow path through them, only ten yards across. Refugees were queuing up to enter. Despite the obvious need for caution, there was shouting, shoving and threats coming up from the rear. The fear was palpable. Everybody wanted in quickly. Who knew when the herd would arrive.
John noticed a walker with no legs was pulling itself along the ground toward the crowd. It had detached at the hips and was finally free to pursue the previously unattainable flesh that paraded by every day. A Tenochtitlan soldier, whom John hadn’t noticed before, walked over to it and dropped a large rock on its head.
John tried not to look at the hungry faces all around him. It took an hour to make it across the path. Any length of time in that confined space was too long.
After they made it through, the refugees reached the edge of the lake and the floating bridge. Beleaguered soldiers looked on at the mass of humanity. People would approach them to ask pleading questions about missing family members. The soldiers would lethargically shrug and point a finger toward the city.
John stepped onto the floating bridge made of timbers lashed together and gazed into the murky water below. A bloated face stared back at him from the beneath the surface. John looked away as its mouth began to move.
They slowly crossed the bridge. John saw a man fall into the water many positions ahead of him. They struggled to get back onto the bridge. Others beat at a hand clawing at him from the water. Once he was back on the bridge, he began coughing up water from his lungs. Soldiers from the shore looked on, knowing that person would be wretchedly sick, if not dead, within a week from the putrid water.
Once they reached land, they passed through the only opening in the thirty-foot rock wall surrounding the city. Scrawled messages in Spanish, which John couldn’t understand, covered it. As he approached, the wall loomed over them, and they fell silent. This was the protector they sought. Guards with rifles were posted atop it. Once inside the wall, they were funneled into a small courtyard. There were too many frantic people in a small space, and the guards were roughly inspecting the incoming refugees for weapons, bites and sickness. They immediately zeroed in on John as suspicious. He was thrown into a cage as a possible spy. The family protested, and after an hour of explaining, the guards believed his story and let him go. He had his freedom, in theory. Everyone was required to pull their weight in the defense of the city. So far, her citizens weren’t. This put the weight on the refugees to do the work. As the local population descended into chaos and debauchery, the newcomers were building defenses, moving stores of food and weapons, and in John’s case—entertaining.
Being tall and light skinned meant John didn’t look like most people in Tenochtitlan. This earned him the honor of being assigned to the zombie fighting rings. He was an “oddity” of the human species and therefore more interesting to see torn apart by the undead in a sporting arena. The guards probed his bone structure and musculature until John protested. One chuckled and shoved him. John did nothing. They shoved him again and again until he shouted and shoved back. They laughed, as he yelled at them, as if it was the response they were looking for. He was aggressive enough for the ring.
The guards took him to a large building, accepted a payment from a fat man, and shoved him into a large, dimly lit cell crammed full of people. There was a large closed door at one end. Everyone was facing the door. The guards left, splitting up the money as they exited. John wished more than ever he spoke better Spanish.
The cell smelled of sweat. John looked around and saw a variety of people. He’d never seen a fighting exhibition but from the mood and looks it was apparent what was going to happen. It was also obvious some were the fodder and some were the killers. Some were sickly and others were angry. Some of the people looked like they couldn’t wait to fight, so John tried not to make eye contact. Standing next to him was a tall black man with arms the size of John’s legs. His fists were wrapped in some sort of protective fabric. He obviously wasn’t Mexican and stared straight ahead with his lips tight and fists clenched. He wasn’t agitated but eager. John hoped he didn’t have to fight him.
“You ready, Beard?” the man asked, sensing that John was staring.
“Me?” John replied.
“Yeah, you. Nobody else here with a beard.”
“I’ve never done this.”
“No kidding,” the man snorted. “Listen up, when they open that bay door, a whole lotta light gonna come in this dark cell. Give your eyes a second to adjust before running out there. Then, you gonna watch my back. I’m giving you this hint, so you watch my back, not cause I like you.”
“Okay,” John said.
“Okay is right, Beard.”
“My name is John,” he said, extending his hand to shake.
“You’re Beard. That’s easier to remember. I’m Tock, cause I talk when I fight.” He ignored John’s hand.
“Who are we fighting?” John asked.
“Man, you are new, Beard. We’re fighting the deadies. They ain’t covering their mouths no more, either. The citizens of this city be like ‘Oh, we all gonna die! We’re being invaded! What do we do? Oh, I know, let’s go watch some other poor slobs get killed, that sounds good! Take the muzzles off the deadies, that will help me forget!’” Tock said sarcastically.
John scratched his beard and looked ahead.
“There might be some weapons out there. Stay away from the dudes with weapons cause they’ll be swinging all crazy. Stay close to me, Beard. Watch my back, and I watch yours. Screw up, and I kill you, Beard. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” John replied gravely.
“Sir? Ha! No, I ain’t no ‘sir!’ I’m Tock! Heh, you are one funny bearded pasty. ‘Sir.’ That’s a good one. I like that. But not really. Don’t call me ‘sir’ out there cause I won’t know who you talking to.” Tock chuckled again and muttered that John was talking to him like he was Polo or somebody.
“Polo?” John asked.
“Polo is the city’s fighter, Beard. He lives in a big house, eats good food, meets with the king. He’s the man, but I say he’s soft. All his deadies get muzzles and their nails trimmed, and they make sure no sharp bones sticking out. His fights are all choreographed and fake. But hey, I wish I had his gig! Maybe you and me, we be like him someday.”
“Maybe,” John replied, not sure what to say.
Tock looked at him. “Beard, I’m just messing with you. We’re not gonna be like Polo! We’re probably gonna die when they open that door. We’re gonna be like Polo…Man, listen to you, Beard.”
“Okay,” John said.
Tock looked at John and shook his head some more.
A scraping metal sound interrupted their discussion. It was time.
Just as Tock said, the large bay door opened and light streamed in, blinding all the fighters. John squinted and tried to cover his eyes.
“Stay here, Beard,” Tock warned.
“I know, I heard you before,” John said.
“Good. Keep hearing me.”
The fighters nearest the door rushed out into the mass of waiting undead. There were about fifty fighters and probably three hundred zombies. John could hear the roar of the crowd outside the cell as the humans and walkers began fighting.
“You ready, Beard? Those guys ain’t gonna last long. Most of them are farmers. This ain’t my first go-round. I’ve done this about thirty times. Only person with more is beautiful Miss Carla over there. She calls herself “Kureeyun,” he said, pointing nearby to a fierce looking black-haired woman in her early twenties.
Without looking, she shot back that the word was Korean.
“Wait till you see her take them out. Man! It’s a sight,” Tock said. Their eyes adjusted, and they saw zombies coming toward the cell.
&n
bsp; “Beard…Now!” Tock shouted. He took three steps forward into the light and delivered a crushing right hand into an approaching walker’s forehead. Its skull collapsed from the blow, and the walker dropped to the ground.
“Woooo!” Tock screamed with glee, flexing before he drove a left hook into the skull of another walker, crushing it in the same manner. Flesh and bone fragments went flying. “That’s how you do it!”
John did as Tock had instructed and watched his back. He shoved a walker back that came too close and threw another onto the ground.
“Punch ‘em, Beard!” Tock hollered.
John swung at one and knocked it in the side of the head. It stumbled back but then came at them again.
“Naw, like this,” Tock said. He turned around and delivered an uppercut to the walker that launched its head into the stands.
“Didn’t see that coming,” Tock snorted, watching the screaming crowd part like a wave as the head landed in the stands.
The fighting continued until the only remaining humans were Tock, Carla and John. They stood in the center of the arena with their backs to each other. John had found a club dropped by a less fortunate contestant and held it with both hands, ready to take out the next wave. There were twenty walkers left.
“What you think, Beard?” Tock said.
“Seems like we’ve got ‘em right where we want ‘em,” John said.
“Beard, you all right,” Tock smiled big before driving a straight right hand through the head of a zombie that sent a spray onto the blood-soaked sand.
Chapter 14
Sara and the main force awaited the return of the envoy. In the meantime, she sent scouts to new regions to gain additional information on the surrounding lands and people. They returned with hand drawn maps and reports of villages. There were some wild walkers roaming the land, but not in abundance.
More people from the surrounding countryside came to join the fight against Tenochtitlan. Sara was pleased at the people’s discontent. This would make her rule a welcome change. She had interpreters describe the grievances against the capitol, and they were mostly the same she’d already heard. The forced tributes, the kidnappings, but there was a new one she had not heard yet—the king worshipped the undead. The dead were his god. They wanted no part of it.
Sara was confused by that one. She had never heard of anyone worshipping the undead. They were hideous, stupid, smelly and dangerous. Why would anyone, particularly a king, worship them? Zombies were useful, that was the extent of it. Once she’d accomplished her goals, Sara would be glad to see the end of the zombie age. She simply needed them for one last push before she lost the chance. She shouldn’t waste this opportunity.
She was startled out of her reflections by a number of cats gathered about her tent. She hadn’t noticed the mangy felines congregating. They were disgusting. They were foul, scratched at their fleas, and licked themselves in undesirable places. She had read in a history book how some ancient cultures revered cats. It made no sense, this worshiping things that didn’t deserve it. If people wanted to worship something, they should look more to someone like her. She’d accomplished more than any woman in her time and was still going. It made her wish more people could read, as that would be the way to capture her legacy. She blushed at her own vain thoughts and chided herself, but she revisited the fantasy throughout the rest of the day.
Rain clouds gathered. She had her tent staked out to prevent it from blowing away or flooding. The water storage teams prepared to catch as much rainwater as possible. She was growing slightly uneasy about their food stores. The hunters were having difficulty in the unfamiliar terrain, and Obevens was no help. He’d never been this far south before despite his claiming knowledge of the beaches. His lie seemed to silence some of the opposition so she didn’t complain.
They maintained their position for five days. The envoy had not returned. They were a day late.
Sara considered the possibilities. They could be dead, but that seemed unlikely. It was more likely they had gotten delayed by skirmishes. She hoped they were only skirmishes—five thousand men was nothing to dismiss.
On days six and seven, the main force began to engage in sport to occupy their time. She preferred the zombie head game over some of the others. They would kick a zombie head about like a ball while trying to avoid the teeth.
Her men weren’t to leave camp, unless they were scouts. Despite her prohibitions, though, some of them started wandering off to explore the surrounding area. She quickly formed a special security group whose sole task was to police her own men. Their job would be to conduct patrols, report on misconduct, and break up fights. The main force immediately despised them.
Another day passed, and the envoy returned. Sara immediately ordered a count of their numbers, which she hoped didn’t betray her anxiety. They had lost fourteen men and thirty-two walkers. She demanded a report.
“Ma’am, we could not get a meeting with anyone from the city. We sent some men up the path through the buried walkers and they camped at the water’s edge with a signal flag, but no one came out. The bridge has been destroyed, and the water is full of the undead so I don’t know if they could have sent someone out even if they’d wanted to,” the commander replied sheepishly. He wasn’t sure whether this would be considered a failure on his part. He explained that they were late because of avoiding some hostile natives who were upset at the destruction of the bridge.
“You didn’t cross the lake?” Sara asked, suddenly hating him.
“It was clogged with undead, and we had no boat,” he explained.
“Which is harder, building a single boat to send ten men across that lake or building enough to transport a whole army?” Sara asked.
“Well, ma’am, the whole army,” he said.
“I’m glad you agree.” She was angry, but not so much at him anymore.
She sent him away to help map out what he’d seen of the buried biters and the size of the lake. She also wanted to know how much of the floating bridge had really been destroyed. Crossing the water would be a problem. She wasn’t sure whether it would be easier to ford the water or try to rebuild it. From the intelligence she’d gathered, it had been built with logs and rope and could be withdrawn relatively quickly. She figured her carpenters could manage.
She summoned Bowen to her and ordered the deployment of the entire army to Tenochtitlan. It was time for the siege. Enough messing around.
***
The 15,000 humans of the Academy Army reached the outskirts of Tenochtitlan in good time. Sara pressed them through the night in order to arrive before sunset. She wanted the sun to rise on her army so the enemy could see her true strength.
The Academy Army came from the north and marched to the edge of the narrow path through the buried biters. Since the bridge had been destroyed, refugees no longer lined up to pass through. Now that she saw the biter field, Sara marveled at the ingenuity and scale. She wondered if it increased flesh decomposition having them underground. The buried undead began clawing at the ground to break free and she wondered if some might release at the hips.
A number of spear, axe and handler teams were sent to begin the chore of widening the path. It was about three miles long, and the walkers were packed in around it. The goal was to widen the path from ten to a hundred yards. The teams had to first spear the biters in the head and then the axe men would cut them off at the waist and pile the torsos alongside the path—both removing the obstacle and forming a barrier between the path and the zombie field. Finally, men with shovels would come behind and redistribute the dirt, trying to make it level. They encountered the tunnels but found that they weren’t manned. Strange, Sara thought.
They made it through about a quarter mile that afternoon before the sun started to set. Bowen felt the work was too dangerous to conduct at night, and Sara agreed.
The following morning, they got to work at first light. Sara was anxious to make more progress, but there was no rushing this task. Alre
ady one man had been lost when he didn’t realize a zombie next to him hadn’t been stabbed in the head.
A dust storm appeared to be rising out of the south. Sara had noticed it while she was drinking her tea that morning and groaned at the prospect of having to retreat to her tent to avoid it. It was closer now, and she began to curse the bad luck. This would delay things even further.
During the regular afternoon downpour, Sara began to receive sketchy reports of people hurrying toward Tenochtitlan from the south. She sent native scouts to determine who these people were and what they were doing. The scouts never returned.
“Some good they are,” Sara fumed. They must have taken the opportunity to desert once given the chance.
Then they heard it.
A dull droning sound in the distance. At first they thought it might be wind, but there was none. It was growing louder, and they began to feel a faint vibration in the ground.
“What is that?” Sara asked Bowen.
“I don’t know,” Bowen said, looking south.
The sound grew to a purr, and then they saw a crowd of people racing toward their position. The people threw themselves at the feet of the confused Academy soldiers and seemed to be begging for something while pointing at the city. The men didn’t know what to do. Sara had positioned her undead at her flanks but she immediately ordered the handlers to put them directly to the south of her men in a half moon formation.
The sound was now an unmistakable roar. It was a massive chorus of the undead calling out in the rain. Sara knew what fifteen thousand walkers sounded like. This made that sound like a whisper.
“Get those walkers south!” Bowen screamed.
His order was barely audible over the rain and the herd. The handlers slipped in the mud, fighting to maintain control of their walkers. Men lost their grip on the walkers and couldn’t get them to move. Then, they saw it. At first, they only saw the front of it, just a black line stretching across their field of view. As the rain cleared, suddenly they could see down the valley. A herd unlike any of them had ever imagined. Undead as far as the horizon and beyond. There were hundreds of thousands of them, if not over a million.
100 A.Z. (Book 2): Tenochtitlan Page 9
