by Ember Lane
Merl burrowed into his mind, to search out something, anything that Melody might have planted in him. There was nothing. His mind was roiling confusion and as blank as a void at the same time. Merl closed his eyes and sighed in frustration. “I think I’ll just clear the bloody guts up meself,” he muttered.
A twinge pinched his brain. Merl squealed in pain. It was like one of his thoughts had been stolen, plucked out of his head. A crumb fell from the brick but never settled on the floor. A construct popped into being with a broom in its hand.
“Well, I’ll be,” Frank said. “How did you do that, Merl?”
“I just thought about the task I needed to do, and then it came to be,” Merl said.
“That their secret?” Billy asked, leaning on his pitchfork as if he’d just finished a day’s spreading.
“Think so,” Merl said. “Think I can magic them if I can imagine of a task fer them.”
The construct walked toward the bridge. It began sweeping the guts toward the river, but they soon piled into a sodden, immovable heap. Merl decided he needed another construct to shovel the flesh piles into the river. The minute he thought it, another construct appeared. Fortunately, it hurt a little less than before. This one had a shovel in its hand. It marched toward the bridge and began shoveling.
“Think I’m going enjoy you being able to conjure constructs,” Billy said. “Coz I hate wood choppin’ and I can’t see no reason why I’m gonna have to chop wood ever again.”
“Is that it, Billy? Merl just learned how to make constructs and the best you can think of is that you don’t have to chop wood anymore?”
“Chop wood or spread muck. You’ll conjure one to spread my muck for me, won’t you, Merl? When we get back to the girls, I don’ wanna be a Muckspreader no more. I wanna better name.”
“There’s honor in spreadin’ muck, Billy. Thar’s honor in simple tasks. Me dad always told me that, always. When I get back to Morgan Mount and see Portius waitin’ all smilin’ an’ blushing, I’m gonna ask her if she wants t’be a Sheepherder, an’ I’m hoping she says yes.”
Billy fell quiet but shifted on his feet like his bonce was weighing him down. “Tell him, Frank. Tell him.”
“Tell me what?” Merl spat.
“You won’t ever be a Sheepherder again, Merl. That time has passed you by, or to be more accurate, you’ve left that time behind you.”
“But—”
“Portius will accept you for who you’ve become. She won’t be the same person either,” Frank continued. “She’d have faced some hard times by now. Hard, hard times.”
Merl knew the truth of it. He knew Portius and the girls would have had to kill their share of zombays. He understood they’d have had to plant crops and cull animals—probably worse too—they’d probably have had to defend themselves from other survivors, scheming elves, dirty goblins, or cave trolls. But he’d had a dream, and that dream had had a sweet and innocent Portius waiting for him, sitting on a stoop in a swinging chair. He thought of that vision every day. He didn’t want to let it go.
“I know, but she’ll survive.”
“Oh, them girls were survivors, all right,” Frank said. “We’ll come back to a fine Morgan Mount, no doubt about it.”
Merl stared at Frank. In that moment, he knew he would always remember that day. He’d always remember that turn and tap. He wouldn’t remember it for the zombays coming to Alaria. He wouldn’t remember it for creating his first construct. Merl would remember that day for another reason.
It was the day that Frank lied to him.
Merl was a simple soul, but he knew when folk were stringing him along. He even knew why Frank had done it. Hell, Billy lied to him almost all the time. But for some reason, he didn’t think Frank had any business doing it. Frank was opening his eyes to a world that he had never known existed, and as such he had a responsibility to Merl.
“Don’t lie to me, Frank.” Merl said. “I know they’re probably dead, but I can dream—I can lie to myself. But don’t you ever lie to me, Frank. I need to trust everything you say.”
Frank sighed long and hard.
“That’s a tough ask, Merl, but I’ll do my best.”
Vorast sprawled across the smoky valley. Fires burned against its impressive stone walls as its slums were razed by hungry flames. A low moaning emanated from within the city. It sounded like zombays—it sounded like panic. But from his lofty vantage point, Merl could see nothing. A bell rang constantly, a harbinger of a doom that already had hold of Vorast’s neck and now squeezed, but also offering a glimmer of hope that there just might be survivors.
“They have no chance,” Frank said, sitting astride his nag.
Billy and Merl were standing on the cart bench to get a better view. Their new cart had been acquired from the second hamlet they’d cleared of zombays. Desmelda’s fine horse had come from the third. It had been a gruesome journey north, a trial nearly every step of the way. Merl’s killing thirst, his need to lash out, had soon been exhausted, and now they traveled with Merl’s constructs front and back. The luster of war had lost its shiny veneer, and Merl began to truly appreciate the horror that had befallen the land.
The constructs had evolved as they’d traveled, which had surprised all of the group. At first they’d merely swarm-attacked any filthy zombays that had crossed their path, but now a clear leader had risen over their bland ranks and he directed all. Merl called him Gareth after Gareth Duckwalker who’d owned Lowly Lakes, although the name didn’t quite fit. Merl had often seen Gareth walking between the lakes as he moved his ducks from one to the other. The ducks followed in orderly lines, much like the constructs followed their new leader. Yet the name Gareth hadn’t summed up the authority the construct had over its fellows. It just didn’t sound quite grand enough, somehow.
They’d cleansed a village that Desmelda had told them was called Grangeview, and that village had an inn. The constructs had secured the place in moments. Their practiced efficiency proved too much for the zombays, even with the enemy’s new ability to operate as a pack. The inn had ale, and after a hard few days riding, the group chose to just drink—to forget about prophecies no one had ever heard of—and babble. That had brought up the issue with Gareth’s name.
“It just doesn’t suit him,” Merl had said. “Well it does, in the way they follow him, but not in the way he leads.
“How do you know it’s a him?” Desmelda had asked, but no one had wanted to go down that slippery slope with the Witch from Falling Glen.
“It makes no odds, Gareth is just a plain name, and while he is quite simple-lookin’, it doesn’t suit him.”
“The old lords,” Frank had said, “used to be called; ‘Sir whatever the whichever’.”
“That’s a strange name,” Billy had added.
“Sir Gareth the Guardian,” Frank had then announced, and that had been that, though Merl had decided Sir Gareth would sufficed.
At that moment, Sir Gareth was at the head of their column, waiting patiently for orders.
Merl shielded his eyes from the sun. “Looks like the road west is over the other side of the river.”
“And that means we’re going to have to enter Vorast, deal with Rourke, and then cross its bridge and take the Western Road. Lucky the town isn’t in the middle of a zombay uprising,” Frank said, but Merl knew he was just being witty.
“So, what’s the plan?” Desmelda asked.
“Just how does someone plan for this?” Frank asked, sweeping his arms out in front of him. “I’ll bet it’s chaos.”
The cart they had was no monster wagon. It was a simple, open-backed cart. They would have no chance against hordes of ravenous zombays, no matter how accomplished they thought they were at caving the beasts’ heads in, and no matter how many constructs defended them. It demanded serious thought.
“Well, we can’t just go wandering in. We need some kind of plan,” Desmelda said.
“We need armor,” Billy suddenly piped up. “The
dirty bastards have to bite us to turn us, right? So we just need somethin’ t’stop their gnashers gettin’ through. Tha’ constructs can keep ‘em back, but if the do get through, we need armor.”
“We need the monster wagon,” Merl said. “We’re better off building one of them than worryin’ about findin’ armor. We just need some wood planks, is all.”
Merl and Billy had built the monster truck that afternoon. It wasn’t anywhere near as good as the original, but it did have some loose similarities—four sides made up of planks reclaimed from an abandoned cottage. It would, at the very least, protect them from clawing zombay hands—and little else.
“As good as it gets.” Billy had summed up their creation in five words.
And now they headed to Vorast.
It was a smoky morning. The last of the peasant huts were busy burning. Zombays roamed everywhere, lurching and groaning, snarling and moaning. Merl, Frank, and Desmelda stood in the back of the cart, its improvised defenses coming up to their waists. Frank had Billy’s pitchfork in hand. Merl had a spear he’d found along the way. Desmelda stood central on an upturned crate. It was her task to help the constructs and make sure they didn’t get bogged down.
Vorast loomed like a dread nightmare. The crack and spit of its fires, the groans of its zombays, and the occasional scream as a fresh human was chased down all crowded their ears. Its bell still tolled, but even the tolling was getting weaker. Sir Gareth had arranged his guardians like a plough. His ten archers were in the wagon and would use their heightened elevation to kill the zombays in front. The spearmen would then stick any that survived, and the swordsmen would toss them out of the way. Both Merl and Frank were to discourage any from following.
Merl fancied making a hundred, a thousand constructs, that could shield them and coddle them through, but Frank had pointed out that they had to squeeze through the city gates too.
Before they’d even reached the outskirts of the blazing outer settlement, zombays poured out to greet them. Billy jumped off the wagon’s bench and retreated behind the planks, holding the reins and driving the horse on.
Sir Gareth ordered his guardians into action. The archers fired first, their arrows splitting zombay heads open. The spearmen rushed forward next, skewering the filthy bastards, and the swordsmen brought up the rear, killing any that got through and tossing them aside. Quaiyl remained impassive, standing by Merl, yet never more than a yard away, and it waited for any to attack Merl. Gloomy Joe curled up in one corner. He had his leg draped over his eyes. Merl didn’t think he was up for this fight. The dune dog had had enough of zombays.
The more zombays the guardians cleared, the more that then came, until their bodies piled up and the guardian’s struggled to clear them. The cart slowed, crawling forward, inch after bone-crunching inch, and the city gates grew gradually closer.
Panic reigned on the battlements. Horns sounded. The bell still tolled. Soldiers fell screaming to their deaths. Merl got the sense that he was seeing the last of Vorast’s valiant defense crumble and began to doubt their plan of entering the dying city. Rourke was either dead or soon to be. He was done, and any information was lost too.
And then the bell tolled its final ring.
“There’s too many! Merl screamed as the first of the zombays broke through to the cart. They clawed at the wagon’s side, snarling and slathering all the while. Blood smeared the planks as their scraping fingers were worn to the bone. They were enraged, frenzied, and unlike any of the zombays they’d encountered before. Merl stabbed out with his spear, smashing its tip into a creature’s skull. Its brains bubbled black around the spear’s tip. The zombay faltered briefly, but then redoubled its efforts to tear Merl apart, snarling and screaming so hard the bottom of its jaw fell off. “They’re berserker zombays,” Merl screamed.
“Certainly got some oomph about them,” Frank called back.
More poured from the ramshackle buildings. Smoke stifled Merl’s vision. Blazing dwellings lay ahead, creating a hellish corridor. Merl screamed in horror as a zombie, its face burned to a crisp, ran and jumped at the cart. It grabbed the wagon’s edge. Merl recoiled, the sight too much for even his hardened soul. Frank equipped Scaramanza and hacked at the bastard thing’s hands. Merl whimpered. He puked in horror, and the smoke made his retching even worse. Frank screamed at Billy to hurry the horse up. Billy screamed something back, but it was lost in the hellish crescendo that roiled around them. The cart’s wheels screeched in protest as they ground through piled-up zombay bodies.
Merl grabbed his cleaver and stood. He gathered his courage and set his mouth in a grim line as he readied for their next gruesome assault. Frank and Merl backed away from the cart’s sides and waited for the zombays to come at them. Merl’s world polarized into a scene that took up no more than a few feet in front of him as he began killing the slobbering, screaming zombays one after the other. But they were without end. His hope started fading.
“Merl!” Desmelda cried as a zombay tumbled into the wagon. A burst of crimson magic wrapped around it, instantly turning to thorny vines, but the beast tore them apart. Merl darted towards the zombay, hacking down with his cleaver right as Quaiyl grabbed the thing and tossed it back out. Quaiyl yanked Merl away from the edge as another bastard pulled itself up. Quaiyl punched it in the face. Its head snapped back. The construct twisted the dirty zombay’s head, ripping it up and off and tossing it to one side. Quaiyl then pounced on the next, tearing its arm from its sockets and elbowing its head. The zombay’s nose caved into its mushy brain and the beast let go. Billy screamed up at the gates as they approached. They were part open. Bodies piled in the gap. Some had been chopped in half, clearly squashed by the city guard trying to force the gates shut. “There’s no way through!” Billy moaned, panic filling his trembling tone.
Merl backed into Billy as Quaiyl continued to clear zombays from the back of the cart, then jumped onto the cart’s bench. Forcing himself to shut out everything that was going on around him, Merl concentrated on the problem before him. “Clear the bodies!” he shouted, and then pointed at the fetid mound. A dozen constructs appeared. All began tearing at the pile, pulling the festering bodies out of the gap and then forcing the gates open. The swords and spear guardians spilled into the city. Billy edged the wagon forward.
Desmelda’s magic poured from her outstretched hand and formed a thorn barrier around the retreating constructs in a desperate effort to keep more of the zombays out. The wagon finally entered the city, and the last of Merl’s army inched through. “Shut the gates!” Merl ordered his worker constructs, and they slowly pulled the city’s gates shut with a dull, but satisfying thud. Merl assimilated his workers, bringing them back into him and seeing the strange rectangles in his mind refill.
They all took a breath. But that breath brought them no solace when they stared into the city. Ahead, a sea of endless zombays stopped as if they’d smelled fresh meat and the new scent was confusing them. As one, their rotting heads snapped around and faced the cart. For just a fraction of an instant, relative silence held sway.
“Oh bugger,” said Billy.
“The gate tower!” Frank screamed while he pointed. “Secure the gate tower!”
The guardians surged into the gate tower. Merl’s eyes darted between the tall stone structure and the sea of zombays that had suddenly woken. A cacophony of hell erupted as they all surged forward at once. Merl jumped, Desmelda jumped, Billy vaulted off the cart, and they all landed inside a protective column of guardians. Quaiyl shadowed Merl and The Origin bundled him inside.
“Gloomy! Gloomy Joe!” Merl cried, and he tried to fight his way back to the wagon. Merl’s feet left the ground as he was carried farther in by the urgent press.
“Get Gloomy!” Merl barked at Quaiyl, causing the construct to immediately lift Merl up and toss him into the tower’s center.
Merl landed with a thump right in the middle of his guardian army. Desmelda barged into him, shoving him toward the steps. He could hard
ly breathe. Bodies crushed him. His hope began to fade. Billy grabbed him and dragged him up the tower’s steps.
“Gloomy Joe!” Merl hollered over and over while the guardians grabbed Merl and carried him up.
The crush became unbearable as fifty were forced into steps that could barely take three abreast. Merl clawed for breath. Stone closed in on him. Dank darkness swallowed him. Merl yelled for Gloomy, clinging to the faint hope that Quaiyl might have gotten through. He searched out Quaiyl’s head, but the stairs were too narrow and the light was too scarce. They angled sharply around, the steps turning back on themselves. The clamor of the zombays rose as they smelled living flesh. They stole Merl’s hope. They leeched his courage.
The guardians reached the tower’s top, and Merl was flung against its battlements. He smashed his head as he briefly looked up at the smoke-laden sky. Fighting his way to his feet, Merl tore to the city side, where he desperately scanned the horde of ravenous zombays fighting and tearing at each other to get into the watch tower. Their cart was no more, ripped apart in the chaotic riot.
“Gloomy!” Merl screamed, tears streaming down his cheeks.
Billy pulled him away from the crenellations, yanked him back from its edge and slammed him against the outer wall. His furious face filled Merl’s vision.
“Merl!” Billy cried. “Merl!” Then Billy slapped him on the cheek.
Frank backed into them. “Shut the doors!” he screamed.
“No!” Merl shouted. “Don’t! Wait! Gloomy! Wait for Quaiyl!” but he could see the foul zombay hands clawing around the gradually closing door.
“We can’t hold them back, Merl. We just can’t!” Frank cried.
Desmelda stumbled into Billy and Merl, falling at their feet. Her head crashed onto the walkway. Blood pooled on its stone. The door slammed shut and muted the terrible cacophony, and with it, any hope that Merl still held the Gloomy Joe was still alive.
“Gloomy Joe,” Merl sobbed, and then rage filled him, and his eyes sparked afire. He shot up, shoving Billy away and glaring at him. Determined, ready, no thoughts in his mind other than to end all the damnable zombays and rid the land of their foul stain.