Lawson took aim at the smaller group, and I saw my chance. There was a path into the forest. One I could use to get away from Ling and his group.
More gunfire echoed about me, and another zombie went down in an explosion of blood and bone. Two more of the creatures appeared to my left. My escape route was beginning to vanish. I should already have been running, getting behind the trees and out of Lawson’s line of sight.
Instead of making a break for it, I watched as the two zombies advanced toward us, slowly cutting off my escape.
Could I actually want to be with these people?
It was the shadow that brought me to my senses. I didn’t need anyone else, it whispered. Other people were a threat. Ling, unstable as he was, was more of a danger than anyone I’d met since I’d left the city. The thought galvanized me into action.
I didn’t look at Lawson. The shadow’s instincts told me he was still distracted by the other zombies. They were nearer, and he’d have to deal with them before turning back to the new arrivals.
I ran at the two zombies. They saw me coming at them and turned as one to face me. Both were the same height, the same build, and their decaying faces were so similar they looked like twins.
A few steps before I reached them, I ducked right. They followed my movement. Their outstretched arms caught on each other, and I heard frustrated moans as I ran past. I turned again so that they’d be between me and the others, and ran headlong into the forest. Gunfire chattered around me. I heard shouts as I broke through the tree line. I ducked my head under a branch, and a moment later, the side of a nearby tree exploded. Chunks of wood peppered my face.
There was no trail, and the ground underfoot was uneven and littered with broken branches and other detritus. As I pushed past another branch, my foot came down on something hard and unyielding. My ankle twisted, sending a sharp pain up my leg. I stumbled. My shoulder caught another tree. I twisted my body, just about managing to stay upright.
The gunfire continued, but it was growing fainter, and none of the bullets came anywhere near me. I zigzagged, putting the biggest trees I could find between me and the road. My heart was pounding, and my legs—already tired after the climb up the rope and the journey through the forest—were quickly turning to jelly.
I stumbled again. I caught hold of a tree and used it to keep myself upright. Taking it as a sign I should rest, I leaned against the trunk, breathing heavily. I couldn’t see the road, and there were no signs of pursuit, no signs of the swarm. My mouth curled up into a slight smile. Once again, I was all alone in the forest.
Chapter 10
Wandering
I was lost.
I knew the area around my cave and the roads nearby well enough, but Ling had taken me deep into the forest, and one tree looks pretty much like another. I’d never seen the construction site he’d talked about, and there were no landmarks anywhere to be seen.
Perhaps if I’d been brought up in a normal family, with a father and brothers and sisters, I might have gone camping or hiking in the mountains around our home instead of spending my weekends in a darkened room, reading. Without even that basic grounding in wilderness activities, I was out of my depth. I’d survived so far by staying close to familiar roads and logging trails. Now I was floundering.
The distant sound of gunfire reverberated through the forest again, and I wondered whether Ling and the others would survive the swarm. The urge to see Lawson overwhelmed by the living dead returned.
Once I’d gotten my breath back, I continued on, moving deeper into the forest and hoping I’d reach a road or a trail sooner rather than later. My legs muttered their objections, and the day’s aches and pains grew steadily stronger as I forged a path through the undergrowth. It was late afternoon, but the skies were still clear, giving me a good view of the sun through the branches. I headed east, keeping to a straight line as best I could. Most roads in the area ran north-south, so that gave me the best chance of coming across one.
The ground climbed steadily. As it did, the earth underfoot grew firmer, rockier, and the trees began to thin out. The change in terrain made movement easier, and I increased my pace. As the minutes passed and the sun inched toward the horizon, I became increasingly aware of the need to find shelter before dark. I still almost walked past the cabin.
It was small, hunched like some mythical beast in the middle of a glade. I could see as soon as I got close that it was old and probably abandoned. Nature was well on its way to reclaiming the wooden building. The roof and one of the walls had collapsed completely. The remaining structure was covered in thick, vibrant green moss. The door was lying on the ground a few feet away, barely visible under a shroud of thick vines that sprouted from the base of the cabin.
I circled the structure twice before getting too close, but there were no signs of life. There was a wooden storage box near the door. The lid was padlocked shut, but the wood was rotted and black with damp. It would be easy enough to break open, and I made a mental note to check it once I was sure I was safe.
The building interior had clearly been exposed to the elements for months, probably years. More of the moss covered the walls and much of the floor. There was furniture, a dining table surrounded by four chairs, two armchairs. It, too, had succumbed to entropy. The wood was black and rotten, most of the upholstery shredded and carried away by forest creatures or else decayed to nothing.
There was a chipped enamel sink in one corner. I tried the faucet. A cascade of brown water surged out of it then spluttered and died, leaving behind a silty stain as it drained away. Two cupboards hung above the sink. The doors were sagging, and thick streaks of rust ran from their hinges. Inside there were two tins of fruit. Peaches. My mouth watered at the sight of them, but the tins were rusted, and the ends bulged. I put them back, lining them up against the edge of the shelf, and closed the cupboard doors.
I stood in the middle of the cabin and considered what to do. As a place to stay, it was better than nothing, but certainly not a viable option as shelter for the upcoming winter. I’d need another wall and a roof for that. Someone more used to working with their hands might take on the repairs, but my tool of choice was a scalpel, not a hammer.
The cabin would provide cover for the short term as long as the weather held. The sky was still clear above me, but the clouds I’d seen earlier were out there somewhere. There was no guarantee the weather wouldn’t take a turn for the worse before nightfall. It was still three, maybe even four, hours until sunset. Maybe I should move on?
I picked idly through the cabin, kicking aside lumps of rotting wood and shifting furniture, not really expecting to find anything. There was no reason to stay here. I had enough time to find somewhere better. A cabin like this probably had a road nearby. Or at least a trail that would lead to a road.
Remembering the box by the door, I went outside. There was a dull moan. The sound wasn’t close, but I reached for my knife and dropped into a half crouch anyway. Leaves rustled, and I spotted the zombie. He was moving steadily through the forest, off to my right. He wore a checked shirt, jeans, and a massive cowboy hat. It seemed far too big for his head, and the brim was so deep I couldn’t see his face at all. The hat had been white, but now it was spattered with brown and black stains.
The cowboy stumbled through the forest. He’d seen me, and his moans were becoming more urgent, but he was moving slowly and was no real threat to me.
I started to move away into the forest to continue my search for shelter, but I was hit by a sudden flash of memory. I was back in another cabin, a workshop I’d found in the forest, much like the cabin but bigger and more intact. I could see the sunlight cutting through the dust-smeared windows, hear the wind rustling the trees outside. There was soft flesh beneath my fingers, the bitter tang of decay in the air. A rush of excitement, so intense I could almost taste it, whirled through me. I staggered a little.
With the excitement came the shadow. It crawled into my mind like a serpent, filling me
with dark thoughts.
Chapter 11
Control
The cowboy broke through the edge of the forest into the clearing around the cabin. I didn’t have my scalpels, the tools of my trade, but I had the knife. My hand reached for it, seemingly without any thought on my part. I pointed it at the oncoming zombie, lining him up along the length of the knife like I was sighting down a rifle. The shadow surged inside me.
My heart slowed. A calmness washed over me. It was accompanied by the certainty that the zombie was an opportunity, not a threat. He was a way for me to regain some measure of control. Some time alone with a fresh subject would clear my head, sharpen my senses. I’d make better decisions. I’d find a way back to my cave. All I had to do was let the shadow loose.
A flicker of doubt flashed through me. I didn’t have any way to capture him. The shadow quickly extinguished my fears. He was smaller than me, it whispered. I had experience now. I just needed some way of controlling him.
Keeping one eye on the advancing cowboy, I moved to the storage box. It took two swift kicks to smash in the side. The crack of splintering wood was loud and triggered another chorus of throaty moans from the cowboy. I ripped aside the box’s remains and found a pile of tools—a shovel, a couple of trowels, a garden fork. When the time came, I had plenty of options for killing the cowboy, but I’d really wanted some rope or maybe a length of chain.
I pulled the fork aside. The wooden handle was damp, rotten. I pressed it against the ground. There was a soft crack, and the handle split.
The cowboy was getting closer. I backed away, taking the fork with me. Frustration bubbled up inside me until I remembered the vines growing around the cabin. They were thick and tough, and the cowboy was almost on top of me by the time I managed to hack four lengths free with my knife.
I wound the vines into a single length, backing away from the cowboy at the same time. Twice I stumbled over stones buried beneath the grass and almost fell, but the excitement building in my system kept my reactions sharp enough to keep me on my feet.
The zombie kept on coming toward me, blindly following me around the cabin. With hindsight, I was risking everything. My focus was locked on the cowboy, and I could have backed into another zombie, or Ling and his men, without even knowing they were there. But I didn’t.
When I got to the cabin door, I paused and let the cowboy catch up. As he got near, he let out a dusty growl. Now that he was closer, I could see past the brim of his hat. Thick black mucus ran from his nose, staining his chin and dripping onto his shirt. I couldn’t see how he’d died.
I let him get within a couple of feet and then darted into the cabin. I backed inside until he couldn’t see me then circled around and stood beside the door. I gripped the vine tightly. I should have been nervous, terrified even, but as always the shadow calmed my nerves and filled me with confidence.
The cowboy stumbled through the door. I leaped forward and wrapped the vine around his neck before he could see me and react. He let out a strangled gurgle that sounded almost like surprise.
Instead of reaching for the vine and trying to free himself, he swiped at me over his shoulder. His hands slipped past my face. Up close, he smelled of the grave, but there was something else—a faint hint of pine needles.
I twisted the vine. It dug into his skin, and a split opened up around the right-hand side of his neck. More of the thick black liquid oozed from the wound. The smell of decay increased. He tried to twist around, but the movement just worked the vine back and forth and caused more damage to his throat. I kneed him in the back of the leg. He fell onto his knees. I pulled the vine and dragged him across the cabin toward the nearest armchair.
The cowboy alternated between trying to free himself and reaching to grab me, seemingly unable decide which was the best course of action.
I circled around the nearest armchair and maneuvered the cowboy until he was pretty much squarely in front of it. Then I hauled on the vine, dragging him backward and forcing him to sit down. The armchair’s rotten frame creaked under his weight. He seemed almost shocked by the change in position and fell silent.
The shadow was growing more impatient by the second, urging me to set it free. I ignored it, willing myself to slow down. I took a deep breath and counted to four. The vine I’d wrapped around the cowboy’s neck was more than long enough to secure to the vertical wooden slats at the back of the armchair. I picked the one that looked the sturdiest and wrapped the vine around it.
The cowboy bucked and twisted. Panic surged through me, cold and debilitating. He leaned forward, and the chair scraped as it slid across the floor. There was a creak and a sharp snapping sound. The chair sagged. The vine frayed and then split apart. I fell back and landed hard on the floor. A spear of pain shot through my leg.
The zombie wrenched himself around. There was another crack, this one solid and final sounding, and the chair collapsed. Rotten wood scattered everywhere. Black beetles scurried from the chair’s frame and vanished beneath the nearest cover.
One of the cowboy’s arms, his left, was caught beneath the wreckage of the chair. He pulled at it, the action eliciting a moist wrenching sound. Then the arm popped free, and he was crawling toward me. The shadow screamed in frustration as I reached for the knife on my belt. My hand found empty air. The sheath was empty.
I kicked the zombie cowboy in the jaw, snapping his head back. Black liquid sprayed across his face. His ridiculous cowboy hat tumbled to the floor. He grabbed my leg and hauled himself up it. I tried to kick him again, but he was already too close. I caught him in the ribs, which broke with a satisfying crack but did nothing to slow his movements.
I changed my approach and panicked. I twisted and writhed. The cowboy moaned, but his grip loosened. I pulled my legs from beneath him. One hand clutched at my knee, and surprisingly strong fingers dug through to the bone. Ignoring the pain, I twisted out of his grip and scrambled backward until I reached another chair. I tried to use it to push myself upright, but as I leaned against the cushion, it gave way. My arm plunged through the seat. My shoulder screamed in pain as it was wrenched sideways.
It took me all of two seconds to extricate myself from the armchair, but the cowboy was already on me before I could get upright again. His hands clutched my thigh. He leaned forward to bite my leg. In desperation, I grabbed his head, keeping my hands on either side, well away from his snapping teeth.
I forced his head back. The cowboy groaned and twisted, trying to bite my wrists. I got his head back as far as I could in the hope that I could snap his neck, but my arms were too tired. He flicked his head, and his mouth grazed across my forearm.
In desperation, I forced my thumbs into his eyes. There was a moment’s resistance, then they broke through some sort of thick membrane and sank into his sockets. Black fluid, ice cold and viscous, oozed around my thumbs, cascading down the cowboy’s face. He grabbed my arms and tried to pull away.
The shadow swept through me. I forced my thumbs deeper until I could feel the bone of the cowboy’s skull. I let out another cry and twisted, yanking his head sideways. There was a moment’s resistance then a brief cracking sound, and his neck snapped.
I started to relax but then realized his hold on my arms was as tight as ever. Putting as much weight into the movement as I could, I drove his head back. There was another crack, and his grip loosened. Then it tightened again, and his grime-encrusted fingers sank into the meat of my arm.
I let out a scream, the sound a mix of frustration, anger, and fear. I twisted again, those same emotions powering my tiring limbs. This time, the snap was loud and final. The zombie’s hands fell to the floor.
There was a wet, sucking pop as my thumbs came free of his eye sockets. He rolled sideways and landed on the wooden floor with a solid thunk.
I felt a momentary surge of elation, and then the shadow stifled it. I’d grown careless, and it had almost gotten me killed. Worse, I’d missed a perfect opportunity to feed the shadow.
&nbs
p; My heart rate had spiked during the fight, but now it was slowing. The departing adrenaline left me feeling disappointed, empty. My encounter with Ling and his merry little band had worn me down. The shadow might have needed to work on the zombie, but so had I.
With the hat gone, I could see the zombie’s face. He was young, late teens at most. I gave the body a frustrated kick and leaned back against the armchair. Part of the vine was lying nearby. I snorted in disgust. How could I have believed it would be strong enough for my needs?
I wiped my bloodied hands on the cowboy’s jeans and got unsteadily to my feet. Looking around the cabin, I cursed myself. The zombies were dangerous, unpredictable. I couldn’t forget that. I needed a controlled environment to work in, and I’d been stupid to try anything away from the cave. I didn’t even have my tool kit. The thought reminded me I didn’t have my knife. Eventually, I found it buried beneath the remains of the armchair that had collapsed.
Still berating myself, I picked my way past the zombie and out of the cabin. The sky had darkened noticeably, the impending storm conspiring to shroud the forest in shadows. More reason to regret my decision to work on the zombie.
I counted to four and tried to let go of my frustration. It wasn’t getting me anywhere, but I couldn’t shake it. I’ve never been one to compartmentalize my feelings. Sometimes I wonder if that’s what the shadow is—some remnant of a childhood trauma that my conscious mind has locked away, deep in my psyche. Or was it simply a part of me that had existed since birth? An unusual part of me, yes, but as natural as the shape of my face or the color of my eyes? It’s the age-old question: nature or nurture?
I gave up on the psychoanalysis and considered my next move. The encroaching darkness made the cabin more appealing, but if the rain held off, I’d still have time to find somewhere better. The cabin had been inhabited by someone once, which meant there must be a way to get to it, a track or a road.
Serial Killer Z: Volume One Page 32
