Legion of the Undead

by Michael Whitehead

  Harold wasted no time, he drove the point of his blade down in to the skull of the nearest demon. Despite holding the handle in two hands, the impact of the blow almost jarred it from his grip. The splintering bone collapsed inward, and he had to pull his weapon hard to free it from the wound.

  The demon stopped fighting and lay still, momentarily pinning one of its fellows facedown on the ground. Harold looked up to see Gervin standing and staring wide-eyed at the tangled mess of thrashing limbs before him. He held his own knife in his hand, but it was forgotten in his terror.

  Horst shouldered him out of the way, stepped forward and copied Harold’s attack. His own blade was wide and curved, instead of stabbing the point into the skull before him, he chopped down, almost splitting the head in two.

  The last demon, who looked like a woman about the same age as his mother, was trapped beneath two bodies but she still fought to be free. She seemed to have no desire to defend herself, instead she snapped and clawed at the air between herself and the boys.

  Horst spun his knife in his hand, so that its heavy bronze pommel protruded from his fist. He stood over the grotesque, rotting woman and simply stared at her for a moment. Then he leaned down and grabbed a handful of her hair. It was either brave or stupid, Harold was sure he could not have done it. Then he smashed the pommel in to the back of her head, once, twice, then over and over. Soon her head swung back and forth, held up by no more than the hair in Horst fist.

  “She’s dead,” Gervin said weakly. He turned and made gurp-gurp noises as he fought the urge to vomit.

  Horst dropped the demon’s head, it fell like a stone in a river, as if it had never been alive at all. He turned on Gervin, grabbing him by the front of his tunic. He pulled the smaller boy toward him until their noses were almost touching.

  “Three times!” he spat. “Three times we have fought these things, whatever they are. You haven’t lifted a finger to help. Are you a coward?” He was almost shouting and Harold wanted to stop him, to warn him about the noise he was making. Horst was seething however, and Harold knew there was a chance of him lashing out.

  “I...I...I...” Gervin stuttered, cowed by the barrage of fury.

  “I’m not here to protect you,” Horst continued. “If you won’t fight, I will be better off by myself.”

  Gervin continued to mouth silent syllables as he flapped his hands ineffectually at Horst in an effort to free himself. Harold waited a moment, hoping the boys would separate of their own accord. Finally, when it seemed all they would do was glare at each other, he stepped between them, forcing Horst to let go.

  “We need every man we have, if we want to get out of this alive,” he said to Horst, their faces inches apart. Horst continued to stare over Harold’s shoulder, obviously still meeting Gervin’s eye.

  Gervin made a noise, a satisfied, “humph”, as if he thought Harold was defending him. Despite the years they had spent together while growing up, despite their deep friendship, Harold turned on him.

  “Don’t think I don’t agree with him! You’re acting like an old maid. Worse, you’re behaving like a child!” he snapped. A look of shock and hurt crossed Gervin’s face that infuriated Harold further. If his father could see him now, allowing other boys to fight for him, gutless and scared, he would beat him as a coward.

  “So you’re both going to leave me here?” Gervin said, his voice sullen.

  Harold turned on Horst, cutting the bigger boy off before he could speak and make the situation worse.

  “No, nobody is leaving anyone behind,” Harold said, taking hold of Gervin’s arm. “Come over here.” He led his friend back toward the bodies of the demons. They lay sprawled in a heap, their limbs entwined. “Look at them.”

  Gervin stared down at the creature’s faces, their rotting skin, and jet black eyes. He tried to turn away but Harold held him firm, forcing him to see the things on the ground. The moment stretched, the fight went out of Gervin, and he allowed his friend to hold him in place.

  “They’re here to kill us. They will kill us, unless we fight for our lives.”

  “I’m afraid,” Gervin said, shame soaking his voice and making it weak.

  “So am I,” Harold breathed. “I’m afraid to die without making my father proud. I’m afraid to face my ancestors without being able to hold my head up and say I died fighting. I’m not afraid to fight these things. I’m afraid not to.”

  Gervin hung his head, not willing or able to face his companions. Harold shook his arm, waiting. Eventually the boy he had known for his whole life raised his head and met his eye.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Don’t be sorry, just fight,” Horst said from behind Harold.

  “We can’t beat these things. Not if there are as many as Harold says he saw,” Gervin said, turning to Horst.

  “Then we run, we hide, we fight, and probably die,” Horst replied. “We do whatever we have to, but we do what our fathers would expect us to do.”

  Harold looked from Horst to Gervin and saw iron begin to forge itself across his friend’s face. At that moment, the saplings at the top of the slope parted with a flurry of falling leafs. They turned to see a large group of the demons, tumbling over each other to get to the boys who had been making so much noise at the bottom of the hill.

  Gervin turned, drawing his knife from his belt and braced his feet for a fight. His face was a mask of fear but he stood ready. Harold grabbed his shoulder and spun him on the spot.

  “Are you insane? There are too many of them, Run!” he almost shouted.

  The three boys turned and sprinted down the path. Panic drove their feet, forcing speed out of their tired legs. Horst brushed a pine branch aside as it reached across the path, as he released it, it whipped back in to Harold’s face. His feet slipped as he tried to cover his eyes and he skidded to the ground tearing skin from his knees.

  He risked a glace backward as he got back to his feet. The demons were a snarling mass of flesh that seemed to flow and swirl as it made its way toward them. They moved so fast, despite the fact that they ran on all fours half of the time.

  He turned and followed his friends down the path. Horst’s back was just disappearing round a bend, and he thought for a moment that he might end up losing them.

  He sprinted, feeling blood trickling down his shins from his abused knees. He wanted to cry out, to tell his friends to stop, to wait for him, but honour and lack of breath held his tongue.

  Roots and branches grabbed for his face and feet, he swept an arm up, protecting his face and felt his ankle turn. He stumbled, knowing if he went down once more he would never get back up. The silent horror behind him was getting closer with every beat of his hammering heart.

  He turned a corner and almost ran in to the back of his friends. They were standing at the edge of a cliff and looking down. From where he was he couldn’t see what was below them, and he shoved Gervin out of the way so that he could see.

  Below them, the stream they had been following had become a narrow river while their path had meandered away from its banks. It flowed slowly, but with purpose, about the height of six men below them. There was no way of knowing how deep the water was, and in a couple of places rocks broke the surface.

  Harold turned and saw the first of the demons reach the bend, it was no more than a few arm’s lengths away when he made up his mind for all of them. He jumped, grabbing the front of his friend’s tunics.

  There was a moment when he thought they might not follow him, that they would break the momentum of his fall and smash him against the rocks, then they too jumped.

  Harold felt his stomach leave his body as he fell. It was replaced by an empty chasm of fear. He braced himself, sure he would be broken against one of the rocks, actually felt himself smash against them, then he was under the water. It wasn’t deep, his feet hit the riverbed, but the force of the impact had been broken and there was no pain.

  The rush of cold water threatened to unman him, to leave h
im gasping and useless. He wanted to kick-off from the bottom, to rise into the warmer air, but he waited a moment, knowing that panic would be his end.

  He felt Horst and Gervin break the water around him. There was a rush of swirling bubbles, then his head was above the surface. More and more bodies fell around him, the thud and splash of the demon’s as they hit the water became deafening. An arm, or maybe it was a leg, thumped against the side of Harold’s face, instantly making it feel swollen and hot even in the freezing water.

  Confusion reigned as dozens of people, living and dead, thrashed about. Harold felt himself pulled under, he pushed at the grasping hands and broke the surface once more. He gasped for air, then was pulled down again.

  He fought, kicking and pushing at anything that came close to him. His limbs were heavy with water and weak with terror. His lungs began to burn, screaming at him to take a breath. Sure he would drown if he stayed below the water, yet equally certain that he would become prey to the demons if he broke the surface, Harold resigned himself to death.

  Strong hands pulled at the back of his tunic. Not dragging him down but away from the mass of chaotic limbs. Harold submitted, knowing he hadn’t the strength to fight. The back of his head was lifted above the water and he gasped in huge lungs full of cold air. As soon as he had taken a breath, a hand was placed loosely over his mouth. It was firm but gentle and he began to understand that it belonged to a friend.

  He turned to see Horst’s face just breaking the surface of the water. He didn’t speak but his eyes told Harold to follow him down stream. Harold nodded his understanding and felt Horst remove his hand from his mouth.

  Harold looked about searching for Gervin, and finally he saw him near the far bank, clutching a root that had grown in to the water. Behind them, the demons seemed to be fighting each other. They were unaware of the fact that their quarry was being carried away by the current, and continued their blind, frantic searching.

  The three boys drifted in the water, carried by the current, not daring to swim in case the movement attracted the demons. The cold was extreme and Harold’s arms and legs began to ache. His balls felt like they might be as hard as pebbles, they had shrunk and were trying to climb up inside his body.

  The current carried them away from the boiling mass of rotting flesh. Slowly, slowly, the group of demons disappeared as the boys floated around a long shallow bend.

  “I don’t think they can see us,” Gervin said, his voice jittery as it was spoken through freezing lips. “I...I need to get out.”

  “Wait,” Horst whispered, barely audible above hiss of the water. Harold followed his gaze and saw a horror. Hundreds of demons walked the banks of the river. They weren’t looking at the water, thanks be to the gods. They followed each other in silent mindless procession, an army of the damned.

  The boys stayed still, drifting in the frigid water, not daring to move. Slowly, so slowly they were carried by the current, watching their honour guard of the dead.

  Eventually they reached a point where the animal path must have turned from the water, and the undead were left behind. The boys dare not move for a while, through fear that they could still be heard. Finally, as if by silent order, they all began trying to get to the bank.

  Harold attempted to move his arms, not wasting the energy it would take to try and speak. He lifted one arm out of the water, it weighed as much as the tree they had slept in last night. When he brought it back down in an attempt to swim it was like dropping a dead animal in to the water. It was useless, the cold had sapped his energy.

  Panic began to enfold him. The current was getting quicker, and if he couldn’t make it out of the water, it might be ages before he drifted to the bank. Would he last that long? He didn’t think so, he could hardly stop his mouth from dithering, and when he turned to look at Horst he saw that his friend’s lips were turning blue.

  Beneath him, his feet collided with a rock that stuck out of the river bed. The water swirled him around, and he felt a lurch in his stomach as an eddy dropped away in front of him. Suddenly, like a horse that is startled by a snake, the lazy, sedate pace of the river increased from a walk to a run.

  He was turned around, once more, so that he was facing backward. Despite his growing panic, he glanced toward the bank and saw no sign of the monsters. Then his back hit a rock and the wind was driven from his chest.

  He gasped, trying to fill his lungs with air, but managed to swallow a mouthful of water instead. He coughed, adding spit to the fine spray that now filled the air. The river was galloping between jagged rocks and the boys were powerless to do anything but be carried along like drift wood.

  Harold saw a low branch sticking out across the water. He tried to raise a hand, to grab it, but the water pulled him away before he could do more than get his hand above his head.

  His limbs felt numb. They were useless, impotent things that did more to weight him down than help him. Another rock came at him from the side and crashed in to his shoulder, sending a jagged spike of pain up through his neck.

  The world dropped away. He was suddenly underwater, being turned head over feet. He fought to get back to the surface but he was trapped in a torrent of swirling water and rushing bubbles. His lungs burned, crying out for air, raging at him to take a breath.

  His head broke the surface of the water. He sucked in a breath, blew it out in a spray of water, then took another. The waters were calm, the torrent and rocks were drifting away behind them. The world came back to him, cold crisp air and warm sunshine replacing the fear of death in the frigid waters.

  He swivelled his head, looking about for his friends. Gervin was far off to one side, paddling toward the bank. Horst was nowhere to be seen. Harold turned on to his back and kicked his legs, knowing his arms would be useless. The sky above them was clear blue and the sun rose toward its peak. It spoke nothing of demons and watery graves.

  “Harold!” Gervin shouted, dragging him from his reverie.

  He turned to see his friend pointing toward a spot in the water. Further down river he could see what at first looked like a floating log. He kicked his legs, raising himself a little higher in the water and saw it was Horst, facedown and motionless.

  Fear for his friend finally beat the exhaustion and cold and he managed to get his arms working. He swam toward the prone figure using awkward, looping strokes that drained the little energy he had left. As he swam, he saw Gervin running along the bank, keeping pace with him, skipping from one foot to the other eagerly.

  Harold reached Horst. He took hold of his tunic and tried to turn him over. He was like a half-full sack of flour, he sagged bonelessly as Harold fought to expose his face to the air. Harold swallowed a mouthful of water as the dead weight of his unconscious, and much larger, friend pushed him under.

  As he ducked below the surface, he felt the bottom with his feet. It was soft and didn’t give his feet much purchase, but he kicked off and up, turning Horst on to his back as he did.

  Harold resurfaced, spitting out water for what felt like the hundredth time. Horst was slowly drifting further down river. Harold swam a few strokes to catch up, seeing from a few feet away that he was not breathing.

  When he had been younger, Harold had seen one of the local fishermen dragged from a boat, unconscious and not breathing. He had been too small to understand why the other men had laid him on his back and hit him on the stomach, until the man had coughed up water and started breathing again. Now, floating in the water, he wondered if he could manage the same thing.

  He raised a fist and brought it down into Horst’s midriff. The bigger boy sank under the surface of the water and Harold had to get his arms under him in order to stop him dropping to the bottom. He tried once more, frantic and panicking, but achieved the same result. Desperate, he put a hand under Horst’s back and drove his elbow hard into his friend’s stomach.

  Horst began coughing, spewing a mixture of water and bile on to the surface of the river that was whipped away almos
t as soon as it emerged. Horst flapped about, panicking and seemingly unaware of where he was. Harold held on to him, letting himself sink beneath the water in order to give Horst the buoyancy he needed.

  “Calm, down! It’s okay, we are okay,” he gasped as he came back to surface. Horst continued to cling to him but seemed to calm down quickly. They floated for a minute, Harold regaining his strength, and Horst getting his breath back.

  For a time everything was still. They drifted along, watching the riverbank rush passed them. As he watched the trees, Harold began to realise that they were beginning to gain momentum. He twisted, letting go of Horst, trying to see Gervin.

  His friend was walking to keep pace with them, following the path along the side of the river. Except walking wasn’t quite right, Gervin was having to add a running step every few yards. He was starting to look a little worried.

  Two things happened almost at the same time. Gervin shouted something, pointing down river urgently. While from behind his friend on the bank, Harold saw the first demon emerge out of the trees. He tried to raise his hand to point, tried to raise his voice to shout but exhaustion, the cold, and fear had robbed him of these things.

  Gervin heard the demon, he ducked under its lunging attack, then began to run. Harold watched his sprint along the path, followed by first one, then a whole crowd of the monsters. He ran faster and faster, and in his fear Harold realised that he was moving down river as fast as his friend was running, but didn’t understand why that might be happening.

  The demons were gaining on Gervin. At first it looked as if he might escape them, then they were no more than a few arms’ lengths away. Behind him, Harold heard Horst cry out, but his eyes were fixed on his friend on the bank. He watched the leading demon reach out a hand to grab the back of his friend’s tunic just as Gervin dived in to the water.

  The world fell away. There was a lunging, swooping feeling in Harold’s stomach. He wheeled his arms, realising he was no longer submerged in the water. Cold air whipped at his face, he wanted to scream, but all that emerged from his mouth was a shocked, “Ugh.”