Ruin and Rebirth

by Michael Whitehead

  The men had known they were coming, scouts had spotted them two days before, and had erected hasty barricades to fight behind. They had given up the ground between the walls and the barricade, in order to make the space they must defend smaller.

  Many had fallen in the first moments, overwhelmed by the numbers and ferocity of the enemy. Those that stood after the first wave had found ways of fighting back. They were stronger for having survived the first attack, they had used whatever they could, and they fought to protect the people they loved.

  Julius took his first Risen with a stave of wood. She came at him over a barrier made of furniture. As she climbed the pile, she slipped and the leg of a table skewered her through the stomach. In his sixteen years he had never seen anything that had made him want to vomit more. The table and ground below it were soaked in the black fluid that leaked from the wound. She snarled and reached for him with a clawed hand. He swung at her without thought, reacting to the fear he felt. There was a sickening crack and the Risen had become still.

  Julius had stepped back from the barricade, shocked at what he had just done. Up and down the line, people were killing and dying in equal measure. The undead were crowding against the makeshift defences, seemingly unable to cope with the broken surface and jutting bits of furniture. Julius saw an undead child caught in the space between a gatepost and a wardrobe that had been leaned up against it. A living child could have wriggled backward and freed herself in a moment, but this undead monster was stuck without the brain power to think her way out of the situation.

  The houses behind the barrier were full of people too weak or scared to fight. Julius shouted to the faces he saw looking out of the windows.

  “We need more furniture. We need to make the rampart bigger.” Julius felt something grab at his tunic and he spun to see the grey-skinned face of a Risen no more than a foot away from him. He stepped backwards and swung his makeshift weapon. The expression on the face of the Risen slackened and the hunger went out of its eyes.

  Julius ran back away from the barricade and banged on the door of the nearest house. A voice from inside told him to go away, he tried the door but it was locked. He ran to the next house, low and flat roofed.

  “What do you want?” a voice shouted, sounding scared.

  “We need to make the barrier bigger, bring furniture,” Julius shouted.

  “Go away, we can’t help you,” a man’s voice shouted to him.

  Julius watched as a man fell at the rampart dropping an ancient looking sword, and the young man ran up to take hold of the weapon. A Risen clambered over the barricade at him like a spider crawling off its web, he swung his new sword at it and a spray of the thick black liquid hit him in the face as the thing's head broke open.

  Julius looked back at the houses and his eye was drawn to a group of boys, maybe three or four years younger than he was. They stood watching the fight, looking eager but scared.

  “You boys, come here,” he shouted to them. Another undead creature tried to reach him but it was cut down by the man next to him before it could free itself from the barricade. The oldest of the boys, his face dirty with streaks of red dust, shouted back to Julius.

  “We tried to help but we were told to keep out of the way,” he sounded sullen and sulky.

  “You want to help?” Julius said, swinging wildly at an undead girl who might once have been pretty enough to catch his eye. Now she tried to bite at his blade as it lashed into her face. He had never swung a sword in anger before but now he had killed his enemy, and he drew strength from the fact that he was still alive.

  He turned back to the boys and saw eagerness on a couple of the faces. They wanted to fight, to prove their strength, to protect their families.

  “I need you to find more things to build up the barricade,” he said. Disappointment etched itself across their features. He felt for them, knowing they felt helpless. “It’s important, this barricade is all that is standing between the city and destruction. Go to the houses, break down the doors if you have to, don’t let anyone stop you. Bring chairs and tables, anything with legs.” Julius paused and thought for a moment, “find friends to help, as many of you as you can muster, empty the houses of people and furniture.”

  The boys seemed to cheer a little with the news that they could break into houses and had an important job. Julius turned back to the fight and saw the man next to him was struggling with a male Risen that had him in a death grip. Julius stepped forward and ended the creature, before picking the man up from the ground. He turned back to the boys and hope rose in him when he saw that they were no longer there.

  The fighting had gone on for hours. The bodies of the city people were only outnumbered by the bodies of the Risen. The barricade grew and grew, as both furniture and the bodies of the undead were added to it.

  The Risen were never ending, they poured over the wall and leaped at the barricade. They broke against the barrier made of the belongings that made up the people’s lives. The years wrapped up in the furniture that now saved them were uncountable. Each family, each home, had added to the defences that now saved the city.

  Julius turned from the fight and a woman whose face showed the dirty tracks of tears handed him a ladle of water. The cold wetness cut through the dust in his throat and he managed a smile in thanks, however words failed him. He was exhausted and looked over the barricade toward the walls where the undead still poured into the city. An endless stream of death and violence.

  As he watched, one of the Risen reached the top of the wall and stopped, then almost as quickly as he had appeared, he disappeared back the way he had come. It was such a brief moment and Julius wondered if he had imagined it at all.

  He watched the top of the wall carefully and there seemed to be less coming over, then suddenly a second Risen did as the first had done and changed direction. Julius began to hear a sound, quiet at first, over the sound of the fighting in the city. Then the sound began to grow, louder and louder. It was hard to make out, but soon resolved itself into a rhythmic drumming noise. As if thousands of people were stamping their feet or clapping their hands. The drumming was joined by the shouts of thousands of voices.

  As the noise found the ears of the people in the city they saw a miraculous thing, the Risen were turning away from the barricade and heading back out of the city. Julius shouted and pointed toward the retreating undead. Soon the only Risen that the people faced were those already caught in the makeshift defences.

  Julius ran from the wall toward his home. His heart was beating hard, excitement at still being alive mixed with fear that his father may have fallen. He had found his mother and sister, huddled together waiting for news. They had not heard of Julius’ father and as the youth left to try and find him, his mother pulled on his arm and begged him not to go.

  “I must, mother. I have to find father, and I have to defend the city,” Julius had said and he gently prised her fingers from his arm. She had wept but he had been adamant that his place was with the men of the city.

  Now, after hours of fighting and searching for his father, he sat on the wall of the city, watching the battle unfold on the plain in front of him.

  “Sir, the right flank is buckling,” Ursus pointed from horseback across the battle to where the Risen were beginning to get a foothold against the legions. The fight had been raging for the best part of the afternoon and the men were beginning to tire.

  Otho had ordered his men to use the tactics that Titus had used on his journey across Italy as his escort out of Rome had included a number of men who had fought in Titus’ legions. On the journey to Spain they had spent time making reports of the manoeuvres Titus’ legions had employed. In particular, there was a battle on the landing site where Titus had destroyed a force of Risen that was of interest to Otho.

  He had ordered his legions to practice the new formations on the journey into Southern Gaul. The triple line of men, two holding shields and a third using spears, with a large empty area behind
them gave the main force of men the chance to attack the Risen that used their infernal leaping charge without fear of death coming from above. So far it was working admirably well, but without reinforcements the men would eventually tire in the face of a relentless enemy. The losses were small but this was a fight where it could all collapse in an instant. Otho had spent enough time on the battlefield to know that a fight was never won until the dead were being counted.

  As Titus had found in Rome, more and more of the undead seemed to be appearing from inside the city. Narbo Martius had been a thriving city and the gateway into Gaul and the Atlantic Ocean beyond. When Otho’s forces had arrived however, it was a burning wreck with a battle in progress. The living forces had barricaded themselves into the centre of the city. Otho had pondered moving his men through the streets but after the destruction of the forces in Rome he had decided against it.

  There had been a large force of the undead outside the city walls. They looked like a crowd waiting to get into a day at the chariot races. There had been many more of them inside and the city could not stand forever, so they had drawn the Risen out with lines of men shouting and banging their swords against their shields.

  At first the enemy had appeared over the wall of the city in ones and twos, and then in small groups, adding to the numbers of undead that were already outside. The infantry had cheered as the cavalry had swept around the ground between the legions and the city, destroying the undead before they reached the legionary lines.

  Then the enemy had started to appear in larger groups and finally there had been a steady flow of Risen pouring out of the city. Ursus had ordered the cavalry to be withdrawn and had started sending volleys of arrows into the undead horde. The archers had little effect, as even though the numbers were great enough that almost every arrow found a target, Risen were reaching the Roman lines with in some cases, a dozen arrows in them.

  The legions had held on to their pila. Although a devastating weapon against a charging line, they were of little use against an enemy that arrived in small groups. The Roman lines had been efficient and for a time men had found space to breathe between the killing, but soon the numbers became more even and the legions were in a real fight.

  Otho had watched the city, waiting for the number of undead to start to slow. Surely there couldn’t be many more people in Narbo, dead or alive, but the Risen had kept coming. Eventually, the legions had found themselves pushed back.

  Ursus reported a second time, not knowing if Otho had heard him or not. “Sir, the right..”

  “I see it Ursus,” Otho answered. “Send the cavalry in with orders to harass their rear. Maybe we can draw some of the numbers away and relieve the crush at that end of the line.” Otho thought for a second before adding, “we’ve all heard what happened to Titus’ cavalry on the beach, so order them not to get too close under any circumstances.”

  Otho turned to Numarius, “Send orders that the right wing is to wheel away from the city,” Numarius looked at the emperor to make sure he was hearing the correct instructions. A manoeuvre like the one Otho was asking for was difficult enough on the practice ground, in the midst of battle it was tantamount to suicide.

  “Sir?” Numarius asked.

  “I understand your concern, but our right flank is being overrun. If we can move them further away from the walls then we can make the centre a better target for the undead.” Otho would once have had a man put to death for questioning one of his orders in the midst of battle, even a long time friend, but he found he was a more forgiving man after the events of the last few months.

  Numarius passed the orders on to a messenger and the two men watched as slowly, the entire battle seemed to start turning on an axis. It was the finest piece of craft of which the Roman legions were capable . No other army in the world could turn while under attack from an enemy that had them under severe pressure, and still not lose cohesion. The men at the far right of the line would be almost running backwards in order to stay in formation. They watched the manoeuvre and Otho laughed as he heard Numarius let out a long, low breath.

  “There! What did I tell you, my friend? Trust in the legions, they are the finest army in the world when well led.” He added the last as an after thought but nodded to himself at the truth of the matter.

  The shape of the battle changed as Otho had expected it to. No longer were the undead leaving the city and heading to the right of the Roman lines. Now the nearest point was the centre and the flanks were freed up to put pressure back against the Risen. Otho knew, however, that time was against the legions. Men could only fight for so long before exhaustion would overtake them, he watched the city with growing anxiety.

  On the wall, out of sight of the legions and their general, a young man began to speak to the people of the city. He was sixteen years old and although he did not know it yet, his father had died in the fight against the Risen. He got to his feet and tentatively began to address the survivors of Narbo Martius. He wasn’t sure what he would say until he started, but the people began to listen to him.

  Otho rubbed his face with weariness as he watched his men fight and knew his gamble had been lost at the first. Could he ever have expected to march his army against a whole empire of the undead? The idea of fighting every undead creature between here and Rome was just one more folly.

  The legions fought on, the dead that lay at their backs were not so numerous but the foe that faced them would change that before long. The sun would drop and the men would tire and the empire would be lost.

  Chapter Ten

  Regulus was in a perfect ecstasy of agony. Viddus lay stretched on the floor of the blood temple, his wrists and ankles seemed to be tied to the black glass floor by invisible bonds. His elderly face was a picture of torture and his screams were so loud that they seemed to tear at Regulus’ flesh.

  As Regulus watched the skin on Viddus’ face began to split and bleed and the blood welled up in the cracks like lava in a volcano. It boiled and swelled but never broke the surface. Then the skin healed and became whole once more, only for the cracks to appear again. With each new cycle the terrifying screams came like a barrage.

  The boy fell to his knees, holding his hands to his ears in the vain hope of blocking out the agonising noise. The floor beneath him was awash with blood that felt like solid silk. Each time he touched it he expected to see blood on his hands, but they came away clean. He suddenly knew - was positive - that he had witnessed this an infinite amount of times before. Over and over, yet each time the first.

  Regulus looked up to see Viddus being raised from the floor of the temple, his back bending, arching to an unnatural form. With a crack his back snapped, the small sound louder than even the man's screams.

  Regulus tried to crawl to the the broken old figure, the fractured god that was being tortured before his eyes. Each movement felt like his joints were being flayed, fire and ice in equal measure. He realised he had no idea how long he had been here. Each time he had visited this blood temple, he had felt himself arrive, felt his presence here like a physical thing. Now he understood, he had always been here and he had never been here at all. Time was a loop and he was trapped in an infinite cycle of birth and renewal.

  Suddenly the screaming stopped. Viddus sat up and looked over to where Regulus was cowering with his hands covering his ears. The boy tried to stand up but the pain in his joints had not completely died. He remained on his knees and looked at the old man.

  His skin was grey and black blood was drooling from the side of his mouth. As he began to talk, Regulus saw his teeth were jagged and broken. His eyes were the red-rimmed, blackened orbs of a Risen. Had he attacked Regulus, at that moment, he would be powerless to stop him.

  A deep, powerful but putrefied voice came from Viddus’ mouth. It sounded like the sucking of thick mud on the legs of a trapped animal.

  “You are here to witness the end?”

  Regulus did not reply, he had no words that wouldn’t pale into insignificance
against the power behind that voice. Had he thought Viddus was powerful when he had first come to the temple? Regulus suddenly realised that the god was nothing in comparison to the ancient ones that he had given his divinity to entrap.

  “The realm of men has come to an end. We devour your souls with our merest thought. Even your gods cannot hold us forever. See how this broken thing writhes before our majesty. Corruption will destroy the world of men, we will reign once more. I, Zombie swear it.”

  The voice spoke its name and Regulus felt a buzzing whining in his head, it itched and prickled like insect bites. He wanted to scratch but the irritation was inside his head. He clawed at himself and felt like he might gouge his eyes out in order to stop the agony of expectation.

  Then he heard someone speaking his name. Softly at first, then with more urgency, the voice buzzed in his head, then softened and became a woman’s voice. It called to him in his terror and pain, drawing him from the temple, from the blood and the lost souls that made up the very fabric of that place.

  “Regulus? Can you hear me?” the voice asked. He found that he could, not inside his head but in the normal way. His body was his own once more, he belonged in this world.

  “Regulus, answer me, can you hear me?” Lucia asked him. A hint of panic in her voice, she was holding his hands tightly, smothering him to her.

  “I’m okay,” he answered her and he felt her relief like a force. “I’m here, I’m okay,” he repeated and she began to relax her hold on him.

  He opened his eyes and they were in a cave. He was lying on a straw mattress and a candle lit the small alcove they had called a home for the last few days.

  “I didn’t think you were going to come back to me this time,” Lucia said to him, she kissed his mouth, his nose, his forehead. Tears streaked her cheeks but a smile lit her face in the darkness.