I didn’t have time to worry about it. My arms were tired from dragging the zombie around, and I still hadn’t had anything to eat or drink. I pushed open the door to the workshop, took a quick look around to make sure there was nothing out of place, and then dragged the zombie inside.
As I led it toward the workbench, I felt the shadow wake. A warm burst of energy shot through me, restoring life to my tired limbs.
Forcing some small degree of caution into my actions, I maneuvered the zombie until it was standing with its back to one end of the table. It snarled at me, teeth clacking, black eyes locked on to my throat. I raised the broomstick until the snare was level with its neck and pushed. The zombie leaned back then started to struggle. The rope dug into its flesh as it fought against me. Somewhere, a bone snapped. I gave the handle another shove, hoping to unbalance the creature, but it was too strong, and I barely made any impact. The rope cut into its neck. A scrap of flesh fell to the floor.
A tiny nugget of doubt formed at the back of my mind, but the shadow rose up, smothering it before it could take root. I rammed the broomstick forward, driving the zombie as far back as I could, then let go and dived toward its legs. Before common sense could dissuade me, I wrapped my arms around its calves and lifted.
The snare bounced across the workshop floor. The zombie let out a desperate growl. It tipped backward, its head slamming into the table with a heavy thunk. I let go and circled around the table, grabbing the broom as I passed. I pulled on the handle, dragging the zombie down as it tried to sit up. I shouted at it, a wordless scream equal parts excitement and fear.
The zombie’s head rolled backward, dead eyes searching. As soon as it saw me, it reached toward my face. Its arms flailed in the air. Praying I wasn’t about to tear the creature’s head right off, I backed away from the table, dragging it by the neck. It clawed at the rope around its throat—it still had enough intelligence to realize it needed to free itself from my snare. The noose sank into its flesh. Its groans turned to wet, gargling coughs.
I dragged the creature across the table until its head was almost at the edge then dropped the broom handle and lunged toward the chains. Its moans grew more insistent as it lost sight of me. I grabbed the first chain, threw it across its neck, and ran to the other side of the table.
The zombie spotted me and reached out as I passed. Its fingers caught my jacket. A surge of terror swept over me. I twisted out of its grip, almost tripping over my own feet. The chain rattled as the creature began to sit up. I grabbed the end and pulled, forcing it back down onto the workbench. It groaned and swiped at me, but I was out of its reach.
I threaded the chain through the brackets and pulled it as tight as I could. Confidence surged through me as I slid the bolt through the chain. The zombie tried to sit up again, but the chain held. Black blood seeped from its neck where the chain held it down.
The zombie kicked out and almost slid off the table. I grabbed its legs, hauling them back onto the bench and wrapping the second chain around them. It kicked again as I pulled the chain through the brackets. It almost managed to work itself free, but I got the chain tightened and locked just in time.
The zombie was tied down now, but I secured the third chain across its waist, just to be sure. It kicked and thrashed. The chains rattled but held.
I circled around the workbench, my movements slow and deliberate. The shadow filled me. It brought with it a sense of calm. I could feel it pressing against my skin, eager to burst forth. My hunger, my thirst, my fears of infection and death evaporated. They were nothing. Neurons fired deep within my brain. Possibilities opened up in front of me, flashes of dark genius that fed the shadow, drove its desires.
This was the shadow’s time.
This was my destiny.
When I reached the bench’s head, I slipped the backpack off my shoulder and placed it on the floor. I retrieved some scissors from a pegboard on the wall and cut away the zombie’s basketball jersey to expose its chest. Its skin was gray and stretched tight across its ribs. It made a halfhearted attempt to free itself then dropped its head back to the bench.
I replaced the scissors then opened the drawer containing my tool kit. My fingers were immediately drawn to the case, and a tingle of excitement rippled through me as they brushed against the soft leather. I pulled it from the drawer. Time slowed.
The zombie grew still. It was lying there watching me as I delicately unclipped the brass catch and opened the lid. Five scalpels lay inside, along with six replacement blades still wrapped in semitransparent paper. I ran my fingers over the scalpels, savoring the touch of the cold metal. I closed my eyes and let the shadow guide me until my fingers came to rest on the second one from the left. The scalpel popped free with the barest pressure. I weighed it in my hand for a moment.
A quiet calm descended over me. The cacophonous world, the myriad of banal thoughts that normally battered my senses, dropped away until all that was left was the zombie lying on the table.
My subject.
My victim.
The shadow flowed through me and revealed the zombie’s true form. Black, oily ribbons of guilt grew from deep within its chest. They drifted in the air like seaweed floating on the current. A deep cut in the man’s side revealed a spiderweb of black fibers woven through the gray flesh. Corrupted blood seeped from the wound. It pooled around its body, thickening and becoming a lake of obsidian guilt.
I pressed my hand against the zombie’s chest, seeking out the perfect point for the first incision. I found it just above its heart and placed the scalpel’s tip against its skin. Black veins exploded outward and spread across its body. Its skin tightened, crackling. Dark pustules erupted across the zombie’s face as the guilt bubbled to the surface.
The shadow wrapped itself around me, blacking out the world.
Part II
Chapter 15
Two Months
I celebrated my two-month anniversary in the camp with a hot breakfast cooked outside the front of the lodge—fried rabbit and the last of the beans, cooked on the camping stoves. I’d tried the generator, which had worked, but it was also extremely noisy. I didn’t need the attention it might bring.
The rabbit was delicious, if a little small. It was the first real protein I’d had for weeks. I don’t count the jerky or the protein bars. I let out a little moan of pleasure as I sank my teeth into the succulent meat. I smiled, realizing how much like one of my zombie friends I must sound.
The flame on one of the stoves sputtered. I turned them both off—I was running low on gas. It was a sign that my situation was becoming more tenuous by the day—one of many.
I’d settled into a nice rhythm, spending my days reading or performing little maintenance tasks around the camp. Or hunting zombies. It had been several weeks since I’d seen a helicopter, and apart from the occasional zombie that wandered conveniently through the camp, no one had happened upon my little sanctuary.
A cloud passed overhead, and I shivered. The days were getting cooler as the summer drew to a close. I’d been lucky. The weather had been warm and dry, but winter would be here before I knew it. I had shelter, but when the temperatures dropped, I’d need heat, and that meant either lighting the fire in the lodge or running the generator. Neither of those options appealed to me, but before I had to make that choice, I needed to get some food. There were still some cardboard-flavored protein bars and a couple of cans of soup but not much else.
As I finished the meal, my confidence ebbed away. The shadow reprimanded me for ignoring the long-term practicalities of living in the camp. I needed to act, or I’d have to resort to eating the flesh of my subjects.
I dug out the hand-drawn map I’d found and laid it out on the ground. If it was right, Sally’s Home Comforts was about six miles away, most of that on the highway.
I figured a couple of hours to get there, an hour or so looking for supplies. Depending on how much stuff I brought with me, it would take two or three more hours to get back.
I knew it was a long shot—the chance of a stash of supplies lasting this long without being raided was virtually nil, but it was the only option I had.
Six hours away from the camp. The idea made me nervous. I’d be out in the open for much of the journey, exposed and vulnerable. Who knew what I’d find when I got there? There was still food in the lodge. I could wait a couple more days. Maybe I should find another subject before I left. I thought of my snare hanging in the workshop, and the shadow stirred.
I call it a snare in the absence of a better name, but it was much more than that. Since my first successful capture, I’d made some improvements to my zombie-wrangling weapon of choice.
I’d found a thicker, stronger pole to use as the handle. I’d refined the noose itself to be more secure and easier to maneuver and tighten. And I’d added three blades taken from a couple of pairs of shears I’d found in the workshop. Two stuck out either side of the noose. They were short but enough to inflict some serious damage if required. The third blade was bigger and heavier and was attached to the opposite end of the pole. It had taken a while to get it properly secured, but with some creative metalwork I’d managed to bolt it into place. The snare was an effective tool. It was ideal for my purpose.
I took a deep breath and promised the shadow that I’d let it out to play again, after we had our supplies. I walked around the camp’s perimeter before I left. That was a legitimate job, not procrastination. As always, I’d checked it as soon as I’d woken up, but that was just to make sure nothing had stumbled into the camp while I was sleeping. I still needed to perform my daily maintenance.
The perimeter was a mismatched collection of wire, string, rope, and fishing line that I’d hung with cans and strips of metal to act as an early warning system. The lines were at about chest height. It meant humans could easily crawl under them—because experience had taught me that putting the wire at ankle height meant getting woken up by every skunk, rabbit, and raccoon that came wandering through. Once I’d adjusted the height of the trip wires, my nights had been largely undisturbed. The only exception being three deer that turned up a couple of weeks earlier. If I’d kept the rifle nearer at hand, I might have been eating venison for weeks.
Satisfied the perimeter was still intact, and unable to think of any more reasons to delay, I grabbed my backpack, checked I had enough food and water, and set off toward Sally’s Home Comforts.
I knew the first part of the route well—out the main camp entrance, along the trail to the logging road that would lead me to the highway. I kept to the grass verge, under the shelter of the trees. The sun wasn’t as strong these days, and walking down the middle of the road would have made the journey easier, but I wanted to limit how much time I spent in the open.
About a mile later, I stopped to take a drink of water and check the map. If its creators were right, a few minutes down the road, a shortcut through the forest would take me directly to the highway. It was labeled Salvation Alley.
I’d used the map a couple of times in the past, and it was surprisingly accurate. Sure enough, ten minutes later, I found a handwritten sign nailed to a tree declaring the nearby path to be Salvation Alley. From here, the journey would be pretty straightforward—follow the trail for half a mile to the highway then three or four miles south to Sally’s Home Comforts. Easy.
The trail was rough and uneven. Although the forest hadn’t grown over it completely, it was littered with debris left there by winter storms and the natural decay of the forest. The obstacles slowed me down, but they may have also saved my life.
I was in sight of the highway when I heard a low droning sound. I crouched down and searched the sky for the noise’s origin then realized it was coming from the road. A few moments later, four zombies wandered into view. Their feet dragged across the road’s surface, scuffing out an irregular rhythm to accompany their monotone voices. Three more zombies appeared right behind them, and within minutes the road was a river of the living dead.
There were dozens of them. Men, women, children. Old, young. Black, white, Asian. Some were relatively intact; others sported serious damage—missing limbs or gaping gunshot wounds. The stench of death and decay wafted through the trees, and the droning sound just kept swelling along with their numbers.
If I hadn’t been slowed down by the rough terrain, I’d have walked straight into them. Images of being caught on the road streamed through my head. I’d seen swarms a couple of times before—from the relative safety of a building. I’d also seen what happens to people caught in their path. It doesn’t take long for a group of zombies to overwhelm their victims. One moment they’re running for their lives, a few short seconds later, they disappear beneath the tearing, biting dead.
This swarm was at least three times the size of any I’d seen before. I wanted to run or at least retreat farther down the trail, but I was afraid of attracting their attention. One or two zombies I can handle. Well over a hundred? No.
Something cracked off to my right, and I turned to see a group of zombies pushing through the forest toward me. The swarm’s growth had forced some of them off the road. They moved slowly, hampered by the undergrowth. None of them had seen me yet, but I didn’t have much time before they did. I backed down the trail and then froze as another zombie stepped out of the trees and onto the path ahead of me. He cut directly across the trail, stumbling on a downed tree in the process. Another zombie, a teenager by the look of it, followed right behind him.
I dropped as low to the ground as possible, scanning the area around me for cover. The closest thing I could see to safety was a fir tree with a couple of branches low enough for me to climb up. I hesitated, trying to work out whether climbing the tree would be choosing the frying pan or the fire.
The zombies were still coming—three of them close by with at least ten more scattered through the forest behind them. The road was crowded with stumbling, groaning living dead. I went for the tree.
Chapter 16
A View from Above
I put the tree trunk between me and the zombies in the forest. The lowest branch was still a foot or so above my outstretched arms. I jumped, caught the branch, and hung there, legs swinging for a couple of seconds before my hands slipped. I dropped back to the ground. Picking a point nearer the trunk, I tried again. As soon as I was hanging from the branch, I started pulling myself up.
My feet fought for purchase on the trunk. After several heart-stopping seconds, I managed to roll myself onto the branch. The climb quickly became easier from there. I clambered up a couple more levels, high enough that I was well out of reach but not so far away that I couldn’t see what was happening or tell if I’d been spotted. Not that I knew what I’d do if I had been.
I sat on the branch as the stench of the dead grew stronger. Another zombie stepped onto the trail—a woman with a deep split in the side of her head. Most of her clothes had been torn away to reveal the rotting, blue-gray flesh beneath. She moved painfully slowly across the path without looking up. As she passed beneath me, two more zombies stumbled into view. These were younger, fresher, and they moved more quickly than the woman. One of them stumbled into the tree I was in. He let out a low-pitched moan and moved away.
The third zombie slowed then stopped. He was right beneath me and so close, the smell was almost overpowering. Part of his leg had been torn away, leaving the muscle beneath exposed. Rot had set in, and the wound was a festering mass of decay. The creature let out a low moan and rocked left and right. The smell caught in my throat, and I started to gag. The reflex was so strong, I had to place my hand over my mouth. Every breath I took just made it worse.
The zombie turned his head toward the road and moaned again. He took an uneven step forward, away from the tree. I held my breath, closed my eyes. Every ounce of my concentration was focused on not throwing up. I held on as long as I could. My lungs burned.
Finally, I let out the breath and opened my eyes. The zombie was moving along the path to rejoin the rest of the swarm.
The smell lingered, but it was less intense, bearable. I took shallow breaths and watched as the zombies filed past beneath me.
The swarm was huge. It took over half an hour for the bulk of it to pass by. Even then, there were still a handful of stragglers trailing behind—the zombies with more extreme injuries. I sat in the tree, watching them crawl past, until I was as sure as I could be that it was safe. Then I dropped down to ground level and made my way out to the road.
The highway was wide and straight, and I could still see the swarm’s tail end off to my right. They were far enough away that I doubted they’d see me, but I was glad I was heading in the other direction.
I moved under cover of the trees and had a drink of water, trying to wash the taste of decay from my mouth. A subtle rottenness still hung in the air. Here and there, scraps of clothing and spatters of dark fluid marked the swarm’s passing. The water helped a little, but there was no shaking the remnants of terror still clinging to my mind. I had to get moving.
Taking one last look at the swarm, I tightened my backpack and turned south.
Chapter 17
Remains
Sally’s Home Comforts was located at the bottom of a shallow valley and turned out to be a gas station and a combined restaurant and general store. Apart from a few broken windows, the restaurant and store were relatively intact, but someone had driven a semi into the gas station. The resultant fire had burned itself out but not before it had gutted the building. The concrete around the station was scorched, the heat so intense it had melted the canopy above the pumps into a twisted lump of blackened metal. The husk of the truck’s cab was wedged inside the station itself.
Serial Killer Z: Volume One Page 15
