Knight of the Dead (Book 3): Fortress

by Ron Smorynski

  The industrial pounding music felt demonic. He pulsated to the rhythmic beats and grinding guitar. The voice was repetitively screeching and screaming. He turned around and around having his sword follow in a motion along with his free gauntlet. He sliced and crushed the leaping cannibals, flailing round and round. He hopped and twirled to the music, keeping a good pace as the zombies leaped upon him. He used the truck and cars to knock any that clung to him, slamming up against them and circling his sharp sword to finish them. More came in. He couldn't remember what he was supposed to do. He just felt the music surge within him, calling him, and he posed with his sword, ready and able, a knight ready to battle.

  The ground became littered with body parts. The smoke from the truck shrank his view from one side, but he could see them collecting along the jammed cars on the other side. Many lumbered into the street, the faster ones scrambling and rushing forth.

  He felt like he was in some hardcore rock concert, in the middle of a mosh pit of young, crazed, punk rock bashers. It felt like the industrial band was right behind and above him in that blasting roaring pick-up truck. And the oily smoke was coming from smoke machines filling the stadium.

  Zombies rushed through. He met them, bashing and swirling his arms and sword. He felt pulsating energy. He wanted to keep fighting as they swarmed. How many dead parts were below him, making every step precarious? He didn't know and didn't care as he grunted and gnashed his teeth. One zombie in the smoke looked like a guitarist grinding riffs and pounding to the music. Dad angled his helm to see better through the holes and it suddenly leapt at him. He smashed, bashed, and gashed through it.

  “Hahhhhhrrr!!!” He couldn't help himself as he leapt about, taking on two, three, six zombies, cutting through them and wanting more. The pounding music lured him on.

  He then saw the more ghoulish ones. Several snarled at him like true animals, like beastmen. They didn't just come on blindly but stared at his moves and sword. They stood atop cars as the regular zombies swarmed around them. Dad charged.

  He stepped up on the cars heavily in his armor, taking a moment to balance as he charged forward. He crunched the metal and had to be careful not to step on the glass and crash his legs through to some limb cracking demise.

  “Almighty God! I fight for the glory of God!” he yelled vehemently.

  He felt a strange sensation of being drawn to violence and carnage. He charged forth, as the ghouls hissed and charged. He killed the first several, standing atop the back hood of a car. The others leapt at him, knocking him against a back window, cracking it and almost pushing him through.

  He rolled quickly to avoid sinking into it. They pounded and kicked at him to get stuck, but he rolled off to the street, landing on all fours as zombies charged in. He crawled forth and leapt up, hacking and slashing.

  He realized he was exhausted after that strenuous move. He had lost his breath and felt a delirium. The ghouls came in, surrounding and grabbing at him. He found his swinging difficult.

  A ghoul leapt upon him, grabbing his sword arm and pinning it. He realized he was losing strength quickly. He leaned against a car, crackling the mirror and side window. The ghoul hugged the car with his sword arm pinned as another leapt upon him to yank his helmet off. Others slammed up against them, giving him no chance to push off.

  He saw the intelligence in it, to try to pull his helm off. He felt it tug and its claws reach under the helm to his neck. He had a chain aventail under which kept the nails from scratching but he felt them near his skin. And he felt the helm's chin strap getting tugged quite violently. His neck and chin screamed of strain. If it weren't for him being stuck against the car, the ghoul's yanking would break his neck.

  The music that led him to this frenzied fight suddenly slowed as if it were lulling him to surrender to his death. He almost felt it was conspiring with the zombies, willfully allowing many to get slaughtered for the sacrifice of this Godly soul. The grinding music lulled and wanted him to die in his anger. He felt tired, strained. The ghoul who held his arm merely waited for him to tire, unable to swing, as more zombies crowded. The other tugged and tugged at his helm, waiting for something weak like his neck to break.

  In medieval times, one of them would have a pick axe or a dagger or spike and easily puncture between armor and swing straight through a plate. But these zombies had no awareness. They scraped his plates and padded armor with teeth in rotting gums and nails protruding from decaying hands.

  Dad growled. He could see the darting eyes of the ghoul holding his arm down. He could see its intelligence and demonic gaze, peeking into his helm. Its tongue was forked. Its tongue was forked. Its tongue was forked!

  “Jesus Christ, help me...” he moaned. He knew that Jesus and God did not necessarily guarantee any man victory over their enemies. It wasn't their way to make superheroes or Christian warriors who saved the day, the world, the planet. He knew that any fallen Christian warrior or crusader did not hinder the will of God at all. All glory goes to God, not man, not even a Christian man. Dad read this many times in the Templar's past. No matter their faith, the Will of God wasn't always kind to them. Was this his moment?

  There was no guarantee in a righteous life of success or victory against the purest most powerful of Evils. Dad knew that or did he? He thought of his family, as he always did when death sought him. He thought of his wife, his queen, his love. He thought of Lena and her prowess. She could fight on. He thought of Charlotte and her courage, knowing she'd make a great leader one day. He missed the soft body of his wife, of holding her and being with her as one. He became dizzy.

  Dad dropped slightly and his free arm pushed through the broken glass of the car he was pressed against. It flung free into the driver side window that was broken and open. A half-eaten body was rotting away in the driver's seat. He let his legs weaken as he dropped and pushed his helmet through. The ghoul atop fell over, crashing into the zombies around him. It tried to hold onto the helmet but Dad used the car window and his own leverage to yank his helm through and its grip off. He reached in and pushed the car starter. It was a big power button of some econo hybrid. Would it work? It didn't. He gasped, a choking faint.

  A dead body was stuck in the driver’s seat. Its legs were still there against the pedals. He remembered in his delirium. He pushed down on the leg to press the brake. He pulled a dismembered arm to wedge it. He pushed the button. It started. He yanked the arm, reached around quickly and tapped the shift into D2. The car suddenly lurched a few feet, smashing into the car in front of it. Dad dragged with it, ripping and tearing off zombies and ghouls.

  He scrambled to get his feet up as the zombies all around him bowled over, not thinking to grab onto the car as it lurched.

  He was free again, and the ghouls had no chance. He pulled himself out of the car and stood up, gasped in air, in a methodical way, gaining oxygen as he swung his sword. He gasped in more air and felt the freedom of movement. He was still shaky as the zombies swarmed after him.

  He knew he had to get to his bike. He turned, lurching away, marching to where he recalled parking his bike. He had to swing and keep steady. The ghouls scrambled up from their failed kill and charged at him. He took care of them like he did any zombies. Their flesh cut just fine.

  And it came before him. He saw it as it came forth, another of the large more stout zombies. It wasn't as tall as the others but looked like it had been some squat body builder. It wore that stylish kind of metro clothes, torn and grimy now.

  It stood between him and his bike. Dad growled and charged suddenly, slamming against it. The big beast toppled back. Dad felt he knew it, its momentum, and its prowess. He took a swing from its massive arm. Though it was a solid blow, Dad knew in that brief moment when it landed to take a micro leap at the blow. He held firm. He knew another swing was coming from the other side and he took a slight instinctual leap at it, and held firm.

  “Grraaghh!” Dad roared with a menacing chortle. He then swung fiercely, not with an a
rm momentum, but the momentum of his whole body and strength. He didn't swing in a fine fluid motion, but hacked like he was a barbarian fiercely fighting a demonic beast. It was a different kind of swing, one he had forgotten about. It wasn't needed against zombies and rarely used in his hobby. It was one however he did on his practice pell, feeding into a man's ego, his desire for prowess and might.

  He cut deeply into it's neck. He growled as another fist came swinging in. He didn't catch that one correctly and it moved Dad off to one side. But Dad caught himself. He knew the power. He knew how much power it was capable of and went with it quickly, righting himself and turning to hack fiercely at the neck again. This time the head hung off the severed flesh. Dad cut through the neck and spinal bones. It floundered with the dangling head. Dad hacked again and again until the head rolled off. Dad roared a vicious howl of victory! “Muhaagghh!!!”

  The grinding music suddenly screamed a guitar wail and synthesizer screech.

  Dad chuckled and cried as he got back on his bike, ripping and bashing zombies as he went. He drove off, racing up the street at a nice pace without revving too loudly.

  “Thank you Lord. Forgive me,” he cried over and over, chuckling and crying.

  He got far enough up the hill to look down the avenue. He could see zombies rushing in on the area, around the truck. It's smoke was filling the area, the music howled in anguish, and the engine roared. In the normal world, back before all this, people would have been screaming and running around calling 9-1-1 if someone was doing that. But not now. Dad chuckled as he watched. Zombies veered from him, as he sat quietly, and raced down the street to the noise. When they got there, buzzing around the truck, they literally did not know what to attack.

  They didn't attack the truck and its blasting noises. It didn't have human blood and fear, he figured.

  He drove quietly along Sunset Boulevard. There were still zombies coming through, so he drove slow enough that only zombies really close to him understood he wasn't one of them or sensed he was some non-living thing rolling through. They had just a moment to growl and attack before he sliced them dead.

  Finally, he heard the engine of the pick-up truck stop. Something loud and metallic clanked, and it stopped. The music mourned with some melancholic industrial song. The sounds of the zombies raging in the area did not stop and more and more zombies continued on their way there, thinking something was amiss.

  When he got back to the school, he unloaded his bags at the back gate. Lena and Lisa came and opened it. A few zombies were in the area. Rondo ran up and down the fence barking at them. It was interesting. It was as if he knew he was distracting them. They were not alerted to the gate.

  “Did Sean get back?”

  “No,” Lena said.

  Dad still had hope. Sean probably kept on driving, realizing the mass of zombies were everywhere. But where did he go to or how far, Dad wasn't sure. And it was possible that he had crashed and got surrounded, not making it. Dad didn’t want to think on it.

  As Dad brought in his bike, Lena and Lisa stoically killed a few zombies that came to the gate. Rondo started to hustle over, bringing a few curious ones along. So he'd stop, bark at them, and confuse them some more. That and them trying to discern the slow movements of Dad allowed Lena and Lisa to easily dispense with the ones nearby. After those were clear, they quietly left with the bags before more zombies could zero in on them.

  Dad saw Charlotte up on the roof. She gave him a thumbs up. He nodded back in his helm. She returned to her scope, looking about.

  They got into the empty cafeteria and set the bags down, taking off their gauntlets and helm. Lena's face was emotional. Dad stopped to see it. Lena hugged her father, both in their armor. She hugged him a long time. He could sense her sobbing. His wife came in to see it.

  Lisa got Rondo inside. “Good boy, come on...”

  14. Allegiance

  Dad stood before all of them in the cafeteria. It was getting fuller. There were more people. His wife helped him take off his armor quickly. Beth handed him a bottle of water. He sat atop a table, sweating and exhausted. When most of his armor was off, his wife hugged him a long time, tearing and quivering in exhaustion. She folded softly into his arms.

  Randall stood and clapped quietly, with tears in his eyes. One by one, they all stood and clapped softly. Many had tears, hugging each other as they stared at him.

  He smiled. He couldn't help but glance about at all the eyes looking at him. He motioned for them to sit.

  Charlotte came down with Nick, both cradling their rifles. She ignored Dad and went to the bags of guns plopped on a table. “22s, cool. One for each kid: Maggie, Carl, Sofia. Amy, you're still too young, but I'll teach you how to load the magazines, okay? It's important!”

  “Hey! Charlotte!” Dad raised his voice.

  Charlotte turned to face him. He put his finger to his mouth to shush her. She nodded and sat in front of the bags of rifles and ammo. Maggie, Carl, Sofia and Amy hopped over and sat near her. Katrina waved to little Amy and had her sit in her lap.

  Steve looked drained. He and Tom curled up together on a bench. It was obviously a sexual comforting position. Dad tried to ignore it for now. Steve had lost his pride out there. He had lost the will to fight. Dad knew it. He trained Lena and Lisa through it. He'd eventually get Steve to endure through it as well. At least he hoped.

  He noticed Lena roll her eyes at him, motioning to them. He taught her to be straight. As a Christian dad, he taught her about man and woman. Once, not long ago, being influenced at her school, she asked Dad, “What if I had a girlfriend?”

  She was very close to Lisa. They were best friends. The school encouraged close friendships to be sexual, to experiment. They had sex week were they pushed full charge ahead with that belief system, that it was okay for the kids to experiment, sexually. Dad followed Christian sites, griping to his daughter about it. He was angry, vexed, flustered about it.

  But when she asked him that, he had to answer her, as her father. He had to let go of that anger and answer her as honestly as he could. He hoped the Holy Spirit would do it for him. He had answered her, “Once you have a sexual relationship with your friend, you can never be friends ever again. Cuz when you break up, and inevitably you will, you can't go back to being best friends. It ain't gonna happen. The sexual tension and jealousy will ruin it. It will become devious and just friggin lame. There will never be a sisterhood, a friendship-for-life amongst ex-lovers.”

  She got it. She realized that friendship and sexual partners were different things, way different. Emotions of friendship were way different than those of sexual partners and those in marriage. Dad taught her about marriage between a man and a woman. That love is about man giving up his lust, his own desires, to dedicate his life for a woman, for life and the children thereof.

  He taught her about the calamities of homosexuality, the statistics. He taught her about the sexual practices and what was involved. He reviewed the STD rates and the infectious nature of a canal filled with bacteria and fecal matter. It was something the culture avoided talking about.

  He taught her quite a bit about it. It was his charge as a Christian, as a father, and to see her roll her eyes at him while motioning to Tom and Steve was just classic. Besides, he felt they didn't even fit right, not how his wife hugged him. She was frail and soft, fitting into his hardened lean body. He was once chubby, but in this harsh new world, he had become lean and muscular. She had become lean and supple, fitting easily within his corded muscles and embracing her powerful man.

  Tom and Steve looked like two muscular men bashing into each other, slowly, uncomfortably and trying ever so awkwardly to pull it off. Steve was bigger, but Tom, however effeminate he tried to be, still had the hard frame and the muscles that yearned to be used.

  Dad realized that they must be together again. Or had they ever really been apart, that tension had ever been going on? Dad shook it off. He did not want to think about that.

  Dad l
ooked at the rest, at Amador who hugged his wife and children. They were exhausted, succumbed to the loss of one. But Amador still looked able, even with blood shot eyes.

  He looked at Jerry and Julianne who stood in the back, helping Beth with any water and food requests. They looked like they wanted to be helpful, but not in any trained fighting way.

  He then looked at the serene old lady and the other survivors. She stared at him calmly. One of them, an older unshaven man stood nervously. “Hi, I'm Robert... this is my wife Ellie... I just wanted to thank you. For saving us. We weren't going to make it out there.”

  “This is my place. I am in charge here. I am the Lord, the King, the tyrant, the dictator, understand?” Dad sighed.

  The old man looked at him with narrowed eyes. Dad then looked at his survivors, at the old lady, Ellie, who glanced up at him. Dad was trying to see if there was going to be a problem with these folks, especially as they gained their strength and then gained a desire for weapons, for guns.

  “Aren't we a democracy? Don't we have rights?” Robert asked softly.

  “Rights by who?” Dad asked.

  “What?”

  “Rights by who? Where do your rights come from?” Dad asked.

  The old guy, Robert, shrugged.

  “If you are going to deny where you're rights come from, then why even mention you have any?” Dad hissed. His wife caressed his arm. It was her subtle way of telling him to be nice.

  The old man scowled slightly, then tried to smile it off.

  “Constitutional republic,” Dad said.

  “What?” Robert shook his head.

  “Constitutional republic, that is what America was. It wasn't a 'democracy'. It was a constitutional republic,” Dad informed. “It had a constitution that limited the scope of government, no matter what the leaders wanted, and the leaders were voted in... a republic...”