by Chris Fox
“That would make sense,” Blair allowed, dropping thirty feet to the next switchback. She leapt after, landing in a crouch next to him. He still seemed to be chewing on his ideas. “We need to know more about the deathless. The beast says their shaping is different. How? What exactly can they do? The green bolt Irakesh hit me with was agonizing, and the wound was difficult to heal. I’m wondering if there’s a theme to their powers, just like there is to ours.”
“Theme?” Liz asked. The possibility that their powers had one hadn’t even occurred to her.
“Shaping seems to focus on two primary areas. Mental powers, like fooling and controlling the minds of others,” Blair explained, sliding down the hillside to the next switchback. “The second is altering DNA. Changing my physical appearance, becoming a wolf. Possibly even altering the DNA of others.”
“Whereas females focus on ferocity and stealth,” she added, landing next to him in a crouch. “I guess there are themes.”
Conversation dwindled as they picked their way from switchback to switchback. Blair seemed focused on the village below, though she couldn’t say why. He seemed apprehensive, as if he expected to find something bad there.
“Do you see that?” he asked, pausing on a switchback near the valley floor. He stabbed a finger towards the edge of the village.
Something moved in the darkness. A lot of somethings. Dozens upon dozens of zombies shambled in their direction. A horde of ravenous corpses, all moving with the same driving purpose.
“They haven’t acted like this before,” Liz said, flexing her claws.
“They’re coordinated, like a swarm,” Blair growled, pacing restlessly as their foes approached. “This isn’t accidental. I can control minds, so it stands to reason that Irakesh might be able to do something similar. He left them to stop us. Doesn’t make a lot of sense, though. We can just go around them.”
“We can’t, actually. If we circle around, they’ll head back to the Ark and trash it,” Liz said, suppressing a sigh. “He outmaneuvered us like children. They’re a threat and he knows it. This is a way for him to get ahead of us.”
“So I guess we deal with them,” Blair said, leaping to the next switchback.
There were perhaps two hundred zombies. Not insurmountable, but a definite drain on their energy. Exactly what this Irakesh had intended, no doubt. Damn the cunning bastard.
“We’re going to be too weak to pursue him if we cut them all down,” Blair said, with a frustrated sigh. “We’ll need to retreat to the Ark and tell the Mother what happened. Maybe she’ll have an idea.”
“How far away is he?” she asked, grinding her teeth. The last thing she wanted to do was face the Mother and tell her how badly she’d failed.
“He’s farther north by at least a couple miles and moving quickly. We could probably match his pace if we followed, but I don’t know if we could narrow the gap,” Blair said, clearly as annoyed as she was. “How do you want to handle this?”
Liz dove into the approaching zombies, rending and crushing a path. She vented her frustration, ripping off limbs and crushing skulls with powerful blows. Blair followed, cutting down any that got behind her as she tore a path through their ranks.
18
Suspicious Behavior
Director Phillips clasped his hands behind his back, watching dispassionately as the room echoed with amplified gunfire. The wall screen showed the perspective of a helmet cam, its occupant manning the side mounted gun in a DC-16 Mohn chopper. The weapon streamed death at a young tourist in a floral-print dress. Her auburn hair was matted with blood, and her pale shoulder bore long jagged scratches.
The woman took a half dozen fifty caliber rounds to the midsection, which tossed her body back like a toy flung about by a retriever. Yet she rose to her feet, giving a screech of rage despite the hideous wounds. She began limping towards the camera. The gun fired one more time, this time obliterating everything from the neck up. The body toppled to the ground and lay sill.
Then the camera tilted crazily, turning until it was focused on a soldier with a thin black goatee and haggard brown eyes. Yuri Filipov, Commander Jordan’s favorite subordinate. “Is shit, command. Cut them down, but zombies just keep coming. Don’t have many rounds left.”
The Director was silent as he considered. So many unanswered questions, but the man was in a firefight.
“Corporal Filipov, I know you’re in the thick of it, but we need a status. Where are you?” The Director said, arms falling to his sides. His fists clenched as he suppressed the urge to take a step closer to the screen.
“Is Panama,” the Russian replied, glancing over his shoulder then back at the camera. “Peru status unknown, but bad when left. Werewolf tore off Yuri’s leg.”
“Acknowledged. Yuri, is the package secure?” It was amazing that the man was still conscious, much less manning a heavy weapon with that kind of injury.
“No. Is still in hangar,” Yuri replied. His head turned and the camera spun wildly. There were a flurry of gunshots, then his face returned. “Cannot breach perimeter. Is impossible. Have enough fuel to make Houston, but need extraction from there.”
“Acknowledged. Get back in the air and get as much footage as you can in Panama. We’ll dispatch another team to secure the package,” the Director ordered, face dispassionate despite his roiling emotions. It was all going to shit so very quickly.
Yuri gave a tight nod. Then the screen went black. The Director spun to face the room. “Get me viable extraction options. I want that package back in our hands and I don’t want to lose anyone doing it. Estimates and full brief in two hours.”
Mark turned on his heel and strode up the center aisle, not pausing as he stepped through the automatic doors. He knew their timing to the millisecond and had made every motion as efficiently as possible. Many people would have laughed had they known it. Such a small thing, passing through a door at the optimum speed.
Yet it was from the simplest actions that one’s core self arose. The standards you set. If you held yourself to excellence in the little things, you quickly realized that big things were just an accumulation of all those little things. So Mark made the little things count.
He ducked into an elevator moments before it closed, eyes widening as he identified the car’s other occupant.
“Heading to your quarters?” the Old Man asked. That nickname was most definitely at odds with Leif Mohn himself. He wasn’t an old man so much as he was eternal. His platinum hair and stern face hadn’t aged in the entire time Mark had known him. The bastard was even more timeless than Patrick Stewart.
“Yours actually. We just received a live combat report from Panama,” he said. The Old Man always liked knowing as soon as data was obtained. “Peru sounds bad. The package was never delivered.”
Mohn stabbed the button labeled 24 for Mark, then 26 for his own quarters. Mark had always wondered why he kept an entire level between himself and the senior staff, but he’d never asked. He wondered what the Old Man would say if he did. The man clearly valued privacy, but when the world ended, that kind of paranoia was just too expensive.
“Where is it now?”
“We have confirmation that the package is still in Panama. An extraction team landed, but faced heavy resistance from these walking corpses,” the Director replied, eyeing the Old Man sidelong as the car began to descend. “We haven’t created an official term for the creatures, though Z, zombie and zed have been suggested repeatedly.”
“Draugr, Mark. They’re called draugr. I don’t care about the package. What I do care about are the Arks. I want a bird assigned to every one and I want hourly reports detailing everyone coming or going. That includes the one in Peru,” the Old Man ordered. The car slid smoothly to a halt and the doors opened. Mark made no move to exit.
“What about the package? That’s a live nuke, sir,” he protested, surprising himself.
“It’s in hostile territory. Recovery will cost us and we have twenty-one more.” Mohn ges
tured for Mark to exit the elevator car. “Focus on the Arks. We need to know everything.”
“Arks?” Mark asked, stepping into the doorway, but not quite exiting. “You’re talking about the pyramids, right?”
Surprise flitted across the Old Man’s face, the sudden realization that he’d made a verbal slip. Mark had seen it hundreds of times on just as many faces, the mark of a man who’d revealed information he’d intended to keep secret.
“Yes, Mark, the pyramids. They’re the pinnacle of an entire civilization. If they’re all occupied like the one in Peru, we’re dealing with some very dangerous people. So focus our resources there and forget about the package,” Mohn ordered. His gaze hardened, but not before Mark caught something else there. Deception. The Old Man was throwing him off the scent about something. But why?
He stepped from the elevator and turned to face the Old Man. “Of course, sir.”
The doors slid closed.
“Benson, this is the Director,” Mark said, the sound picked up by the sub-dermal microphone inserted into his throat. “Get two researchers, one on the word ‘Draugr’. The other on the word Ark, with a capital A.”
"Yes, sir,” she answered instantly. “I’ll have reports compiled within the hour.”
Mark didn’t bother replying. He headed up the corridor towards his quarters with slow, deliberate steps as he contemplated the unthinkable.
19
Tracker
Cyntia raised her muzzle, tasting the night air as she sought Trevor’s elusive scent. She’d found it three times now, but each time it had vanished as quickly as she’d discovered it. Brief hints that the man himself was close, just out of reach. Each time a more conventional search had shown two sets of tracks making their way north.
The familiar musk of sweat reminded her of leaning against Trevor back before the final assault in Cajamarca, one of the last times she’d seen him alive.
Do you taste that, Ka-Ken? His scent is sickly. Tainted. He has become one of the deathless. Your quest is futile. Your He cannot be reclaimed, cannot be redeemed. He has become the ancient enemy, terrible and cunning.
Cyntia ignored the voice, as she often did. It rarely told her anything useful, though it had taught her to track by scent. It had claimed that she was a tracker, one of the Ka-Ken gifted with supernaturally enhanced senses. That was proving useful, as she’d have otherwise lost Trevor’s trail long ago. Even still, the quest seemed futile and she understood why the others thought her foolish to pursue it.
Their opinions of her ranged from ambivalence to disdain, perhaps because she was the weakest of the females. The omega of their little pack. She was comfortable with that role, or she would have been if she cared for any of them. Yet she did not. She’d joined their number because she and Liz had once been friends. The fact that Liz refused to join a search for her own brother showed just how divergent their priorities had grown.
Trevor was a good man. Strong and intelligent. Capable. The sort who faced the end of the world on his feet, shielding those weaker than himself despite the sacrifice it might call for. It didn’t hurt that he had the kind of shoulders you couldn’t keep your hands off of. He didn’t deserve the fate that had befallen him, one she simply couldn’t accept.
But was that a reason to go haring off searching for him? Not really. Cyntia understood her need for him was irrational, but it was all she had. So she searched.
Cyntia knelt next to a boot print. The tread matched those she’d followed from the site of the motorcar where they’d found Sheila’s corpse. It might not be Trevor, but it was the best lead she had. She loped along the dirt track, following the bootprints.
The moon rose, the slender crescent providing more than enough light to see as she continued her search. Hours passed as she fell into a steady rhythm, pounding along in the direction she hoped Trevor had gone.
What would she do if she found him? What if he was a zombie, like the others? It was possible that there might be a cure, but she didn’t know of one. The Mother might, but Cyntia didn’t trust her. She’d probably kill Trevor on sight if he was one of the undead. So what could she do? Put him out of his misery? She just didn’t know. It was a special brand of agony, the uncertainty. So she put it from her mind. First she had to locate him, and then she would deal with what came next.
Her journey took her over ridges and switchbacks, but the elevation gradually decreased as she neared the jungle. Was that their destination? She quickened her pace, fear spiking as she realized that she might not be able to track them through the dense foliage. There would be a million competing scents, and the jungle would swallow their footprints.
There. Up ahead a small fire flickered between the trees. Someone had set up a camp and the tracks led in that exact direction. She crept through the trees, suppressing the wave of hope that surged within her. If it was Trevor, then the fact that he could light a campfire suggested that something of who he had been had survived. Mindless zombies didn’t need fire.
She neared the camp, slipping from tree to tree with the shadows cloaking her approach. Only one figure sat in the firelight, a familiar green baseball cap and shock of reddish-orange hair poking out from under it. Elation filled her. She dropped the shadows, stepping into the firelight.
“Trevor?” she asked, tentatively. Would he be happy to see her? She knew he’d been attracted to her, but he’d also acted as if she were a distraction most of the time. She’d hoped it was merely an act concealing affection similar to her own.
The figure stirred, turning to face her. His eyes were glassy, but they focused on her. Trevor had no visible wound, but he was far too pale to be living. Yet there he stood, next to a fire it seemed he’d created. How could that be if he was a zombie?
Cyntia felt a sharp pain as something grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her back. Claws settled around her throat, just barely pricking the skin.
“Shift back to your human form, or I will slash out your throat. By the time you recover I’ll have severed your head, and trust me when I say there’s no recovering from that. Not even for a Ka-Ken.” The voice was male, cultured and friendly with an almost British accent. Incongruous when set next to the man’s actions.
“All right,” she agreed, willing herself to shift back. She shrank, but the man’s grip didn’t slacken as her body changed. A few moments later she stood there naked. Her eyes pleaded with Trevor for help, but his glassy gaze returned to the fire. What had she stumbled into?
“I will release you now, but know that if you struggle or attempt to attack me I will destroy you,” the voice said, releasing her as promised. She stumbled forward, turning to face her assailant.
The stranger’s ivory clothing shone under the moonlight, his features shadowed. Only his eyes stood out, pools of sickly green that studied her dispassionately.
“You are following me. Why? Are you one of those Isis has recruited? Be truthful and I may spare you,” the man commanded, his eyes narrowing as he awaited her response.
“I was with them, yes. I left to find him,” she said, nodding towards Trevor. “He was one of our companions before the world ended. I…I care for him.” The admission was difficult.
“You’ve found him. Let us assume I allow you to live. What then?” the man asked, raising a single eyebrow. His stance relaxed, though she had the feeling that he could still kill her before she could cross the distance between them.
“I don’t know. I was hoping he was still alive, but he's…is there anything left of the man who used to exist?” she asked, her gaze shifting to Trevor. He stood placidly, seemingly unaware of their presence.
“He is very nearly intact, a rarity even in my time. It can only happen when the individual accepts the change,” the man explained. He gestured at the fire. “Be seated. Let us discuss this like civilized people. I will answer your questions and you will answer mine. If those answers please me, I will allow you to live.”
Cyntia did as she was bid, sitting on a slo
ped rock near the fire. The warmth of it was welcome. She gathered her knees to her chest, conscious of her nakedness, though the stranger seemed oblivious. Trevor sat as well, just a few feet away. His posture was wrong, and his head moved with jerky little twitches.
“He gave his name as Trevor. In time he will recover more of his former self if he feeds often and well. Eventually he will remember nearly everything from his former life. He will closely resemble me, once he has fully awakened as a deathless,” the man explained, razored teeth flashing in the firelight as he spoke. He sat on a fallen log on the far side of the fire. “I hope that answer suffices. I am Irakesh of the Cradle. And you are?”
“Cyntia,” she gave simply.
“Well Cyntia, you have found this man you care for. You know that in time he will become much as he was before,” Irakesh explained, steepling his fingers as he studied her with that horrible green gaze. “Yet he will be deathless, the sworn enemy of your kind. We are on opposite sides of a war. What will you do if he attempts to kill you? Will you allow it, or seek to slay your mate?”
“War?” Cyntia scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “I fight no war. I seek only to live my life as I choose. If Trevor becomes the man he was, then I will help him remember.”
“He will become so much more than he ever was,” Irakesh explained, gaze still weighing her. “In time he will grow powerful, a deathless of incredible strength. He will fight at my side, helping extend my rule through the northern continent. Standing at his side means standing at mine. Is this something you can accept?”
“If you will help Trevor become the man he was, then I will follow you,” Cyntia said.