Knight of the Dead (Book 1): Knight of the Dead

by Smorynski, Ron

  Never before have we seen someone with the right skills confront the zombie horde

  ...until now.

  Knight

  of the

  Dead

  A medieval re-enactor's fight for Lord and family, in a zombie apocalypse.

  By Ron Smorynski

  ZECHARIAH 14:12-13

  And this shall be the plague wherewith the LORD will smite all the people that have fought against Jerusalem; Their flesh shall consume away while they stand upon their feet, and their eyes shall consume away in their holes, and their tongue shall consume away in their mouth. And it shall come to pass in that day, that a great tumult from the LORD shall be among them; and they shall lay hold every one on the hand of his neighbour, and his hand shall rise up against the hand of his neighbour.

  EPHESIANS 6:11

  Put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the schemes of the devil.

  Table of Contents

  1. In the beginning

  2. First Step

  3. Just a few blocks

  4. Your Home Is Your Castle

  5. At Your Doorstep

  6. Besieged

  7. Spring Cleaning in the Fall

  8. Into the Night

  9. Fortress

  10. Battle Royale

  11. The Horde

  12. Stock

  13. Family

  14. Lena's First Excursion

  15. City of Nightmares

  16. The Plan

  17. Hell

  18. Healing

  19. Retribution

  20. God's Plan

  21. The Trip

  22. Trip Two

  23. Staycation

  24. The Schoolyard

  25. Caught

  26. Thou Shalt Not Murder

  27. A Family Outing

  28. Return of The Horde

  29. Hellfire

  30. Charlotte

  31. EPILOGUE

  “Knight of the Dead” Volume Series

  Text Copyright

  First Edition 2018

  Edited by Tammi Smorynski

  Special Thanks: Joel Lipman

  Cover Art: Ron Smorynski

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the author, unless you are reviewing and/or promoting it.

  This is a work of fiction. It is a work of fantasy. While real people have influenced this work, it is in no way to be construed as representations but as imaginary fiction for the purposes of entertainment and a sense of moral righteous fury.

  Find more info @storytellingron on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram

  Www.storytellingron.com

  1. In the beginning...

  “I'm coming to get you.”

  “School's on lock-down Dad.”

  “Whatever, I'm coming to get you.”

  “What's going on?”

  “I don't know but mom's staying home with Charlotte. I'm coming to get you.”

  “Let me ask.”

  “Come on...”

  “My teacher will let me go if you come to pick me up.”

  “I'll be there soon!” Dad turns to his wife, “Stay here with Charlotte.”

  “I'll call work. Let them know I'm staying.”

  A cacophony of sirens passes by. The fragile eighty-year-old windows shudder in their thick wood frames from the rumble of fire engines.

  “With that many sirens going by, something's going on. Check the news.”

  Husband and wife stand in their living room watching the TV. The news broadcasts the bird's eye view from a helicopter cam. Below are police cars, a traffic jam, and people running to and fro.

  The newscaster tries to narrate with a faltering voice. “It appears there is a massive traffic jam along the 101 freeway. What would seem a typical day in sunny Los Angeles...”

  “No way you're going to make it through that.”

  The newscaster, “...people are getting out of their cars. Are they arguing? Or, are they fighting? Is this frustration at the long traffic jam? This back up is miles long. We don't know the cause of such an epic traffic jam but it appears there are many instances of collisions and altercations. Oh! Oh my gosh, they are breaking windows! This is live footage. We've got rioters attacking drivers. Is it road rage? Where are the police? Is this really happening?”

  From the bird's eye view on TV, a car pulls out of the line and races down the shoulder. A lady runs out in front of the car. It stops as she bangs on it but it races forward. She buckles under the car. The car bounces higher than expected. “Oh my God.” The helicopter camera shakes as it moves to another scene. A car smashes into another. Someone flies out of the window from the impact. The camera swivels quickly to another.

  A car is racing along the shoulder. A person is on top of the hood. It ends quickly as the car scrapes against the line of cars and crunches into a bumper. The person on the hood flies off, rolls, then gets up and leaps at the driver's window.

  The newscaster continues, “I'm not sure what we are looking at here. Do we have any message from law enforcement? Or or or, the mayor's office?”

  The helicopter camera swivels again toward an on-ramp. A police car crawls past the jammed cars to get closer to the mayhem. A car tries to pull out as the police flash their lights. The police stop and get out. They are met by two drivers on foot. One is holding the other, who's bleeding. They hobble by quickly. The police are unsure whether to help them or head up the ramp. The one helping the other points back as the police look and pull out their guns. A civilian, dirty and crazed, scrambles around jammed cars, leaping atop hoods. The police barely have time to wave a warning then fire. The man leaps upon them. “Oh my God, we have shooting down there!”

  “Stop it. I can't watch,” Mom says.

  The husband turns off the TV.

  “Daddy.”

  “You stay with your mommy, okay?!” Dad kisses his young daughter.

  “This doesn't feel like a riot. They look wrong.” The husband looks at his wife and daughter, who are holding each other.

  The mom hugs her daughter. “It's okay Charlotte. I'm not going to work today.”

  “The 101 isn't clearing anytime soon. I can guarantee you that. I don't want you stuck in downtown Los Angeles if this goes full bat shit riot! Which, I'm sure it already is. Just stay here. I'm getting Lena! Lock all the doors. Use the shotgun on anyone that comes through the door. And Rondo, you stay boy. Stay! Guard momma and Charlotte! Okay boy? Guard.”

  Their pet dog Rondo sniffs Dad's hand and wags his tail nervously. The dog is aware that something out there is wrong, something epic.

  Dad holds his morning coffee and heads out the door. He pulls out his keys. He can hear the siren of a cop car go by somewhere past his view of palm trees and garden foliage.

  “Another one, damn.” He puts his coffee mug on the roof of the Prius hybrid. The gate to his driveway is a chain link fence. It's shoddy and swings inward. It has a chain and padlock. He unlocks the padlock and opens it.

  As Dad scoots between fencing and car to the driver's door, he notices a man down the driveway looking tattered with blood on his mouth. The man stumbles along the sidewalk. The tattered man grits his salivating teeth. There's blood trickling down his chin and blood stains on his clothes. The bloodied man stumbles past then stops. He looks up the driveway at Dad.

  There is a moment of silence as he stares. Dad stares back. Dad thinks, 'What the hell?' A siren in his head with the rhythm of his h
eartbeat bursts his adrenaline.

  “Rabid,” Dad says under his breath. “Rabid.”

  Rondo barks like crazy from the door. Mom ushers Charlotte away. Good for them.

  Dad leaps. The blood faced man scrambles up the driveway. Both reach the gate. Dad kicks the closest gate outward. It swings out to smack the rabid man, knocking him down. Dad waits till the gurgling man gets up to his knees, then with a boxer's prance, Dad kicks him down the driveway and closes the gate. He locks it with the chain and padlock.

  “Uh huh! No way!”

  The rabid man leaps at the locked gate. It jolts flimsy but holds. With each push, the whole thing clangs and shudders, shaking the hedges. The man reaches over the gate clawing the air. Seeing his bloodied black nails, Dad thinks twice about punching. With such rabid adrenaline, that hand is a fist with an iron grip.

  He notices something in the bloodied gurgling mouth. There is additional flesh or dangling pieces of skin. He bit someone hard. Dad glares at the man's face, the discolored skin, veins popping, and crazed glaucoma like eyes. The man is rabid or infested.

  “Zombies, freaking zombies, no way?!” Dad stumbles back up the stairs of the porch. Rondo barks like crazy. Dad gets to the door, opening it. He knees the dog back inside.

  “Honey! Get Charlotte and Rondo to the bedroom!”

  They head back to the master bedroom. Dad opens the closet.

  “What's going on? Who's there?”

  “We got zombies. Or crazed rabid freaks or something! An epidemic! Jesus is coming! I don't know!” Dad opens the gun safe. He has a mini-arsenal. It is not impressive to gun collectors but a little over stocked for home defense. He pulls out shotguns, a 12 and 20 gauge. He sets the 20 gauge down by the bedroom door and keeps the 12 gauge. It has an extra buttstock shell holder that carries six more rounds. Mom and Charlotte are crying. Rondo is at the door barking.

  “Charlotte! Get your dog back here now!”

  Charlotte locks up her emotions and gets her dog. “Rondo, come here!”

  Rondo comes back growling under his breath. Charlotte grabs his collar and pulls Rondo.

  “I'm getting Lena, bringing her back. I don't know how long it will take, but I'm doing it and I'm going through them.”

  Mom nods, agreeing with what her husband and father of her first daughter must do. Whatever may come, whatever the sacrifice, family must be together. They kiss a nervous kiss. Their foreheads meet and husband and wife breathe together for a moment.

  “Wait a minute...” Dad pulls out a sword in scabbard from behind the bed. His hand shakes as he lifts the scabbard. His hand can not hold it steady. He then grips the pommel and pulls out the sword. “God help me.” His hand becomes calm. He knows. He does a moulinet. It's French. A “mol-ah-ney” is a circular swing that brings the blade back to its starting position. It flows through his arm to his shoulders and draws strength by its tight circular motion.

  His wife thought he was crazy but she let him have his obsessive weekend warrior hobby -- medieval armored combat. He always felt there was a reason he loved it. He had asked God many times if he should be spending so much time on this crazy hobby. He was compelled. He had to protect his family in more ways than one. It seems crazy, zombies in L.A.?

  Also, when he bought his first gun, his wife was against it. That is until there was a false alarm. The house alarm blared in the middle of the night. She stood behind him as he raised the gun. He pointed it into the kitchen and the living room. Was he afraid? No, he was not afraid. It was his duty. And though it was just a false alarm, a door not quite closed those years ago, she understood the gun was staying – and there were more to come. And she agreed to allow him to teach the whole family how to use them.

  “Dad, what about your armor?”

  “What?”

  “Your armor!? Put it on!”

  He grabs an old sports bag from the closet and pulls out a series of leather and steel pieces. He buckles them to his arms.

  “No dad, the armor, the whole big thing!” Charlotte hops excited.

  “Nah, that's stored away. I'm not putting that on. This will do!” It's his lighter armor, practice stuff, but still effective. He smacks the tough leather forearms with spring-steel elbow cops. Spring-steel is a very light strong steel that is used to make metal springs. Medieval re-enactors who fight in steel found it to be the closest to the advanced light weight steels made for royal knights. No claws or rabid teeth can bite through them. His elbow, backed by corded muscles and solid shoulders, could smash through them with full protection. He also put on some leather gloves.

  “I'm going to get Lena damnit! Stay in the bedroom! Charlotte – the 22.” Dad pulls out the Smith & Wesson semi-automatic 22-LR or long rifle. It's perfect for Charlotte. With its shortened stock, a small girl can easily hold the tactical rifle. It has a toy like weight and the polymer gives it a plastic feel.

  Charlotte has been to the shooting range quite a few times. Dad had her do some 'dry runs' at home. If Dad ever had to leave, to run errands, Charlotte knew not to answer the door even if Rondo barked like crazy. She also knew to get the .22 and position herself back in the kitchen. Anyone who came through the front door would get three to four .22 rounds, no questions asked. If the stranger had nothing in his hands, shoot like crazy at the legs. If the stranger had anything in his hands, aim higher.

  When Dad returned, he made sure she knew it was him via getting Rondo to stop barking, as he would only stop barking if it was someone in the family. Then Dad would put in the alarm code, and give her verbal identification it was him. Dad was thorough.

  Charlotte was an ace sharp shooter at the shooting range. It's an easy rifle to shoot but he wasn't sure how she'd do with something charging at her.

  “Just stay here! Stay in the back.”

  Charlotte salutes. Mom holds her. Rondo shakes on the bedroom rug. Dad pets him. “Whaddup Rondo? It's okay.” It helps.

  2. First Step

  With shotgun, sword, and arm greaves, Dad struts out the front door. The rabid man is still there meandering at the end of the driveway. As Dad approaches, it leaps upon the rickety chain link gate. Dad raises his shotgun as he comes down the stairs. The rabid man keeps leaping at the fence. Dad aims the shotgun but the man doesn't react to it. The man continues body slamming the gate. He bounces back and forth in a frenzied state. Dad sets the shotgun down and pulls out his sword. He looks at the sword, then at the man.

  The gate holds up. Dad gets closer as the man, gurgling, jerks his arm between the gates. The chain and padlock jingle and hold tight against each push. In the distance, a siren goes off and gunfire erupts here and there. Dad looks to where the sounds are coming from -- but it's beyond his view. He seems almost oblivious to the gurgling zombie hisses, the fence bending, and the clawing hand getting closer.

  Dad then looks at the crazed man and blinks. He moulinets and the hand comes off, dropping inside the gate.

  Dad stares blank eyed, as the man, oblivious to the hand severance, still gurgles in anger. The man keeps pushing on the gate. Dad stares at the severed arm, oozing and squirting very dark blood. He avoids it. He steps back and stabs into the abdomen of the man. The man merely churns in animal rabid frustration. The chain link fence limits Dad's ability to swing. He stabs at the face. The blade sinks into the neck. The man's head is cocked but still growling. Dad pulls back and stabs again through the neck. A cartilage pops and the blade connects to spine discs.

  Dad twists the blade. He hears crackling of the spine and ligaments. The man slumps against the fence gurgling. It is somewhat paralyzed. Dad must have cut off the communication from brain to nerves. But it still gurgles and gapes its grotesque mouth. Dad thrusts the sword through the eye and into the brain. It falls over -- finally silent.

  “Yep. Head shots for zombies. That ain't gonna go well in L.A.”

  The sounds slowly rise within his psyche. He can hear across L.A., the sounds of ambulances and police sirens and a myriad of car honks. He
shakes it off.

  He opens the gate and drags the body down the driveway and off to one side. He sees his next door neighbor, an old lady. She stares through her barred window like a pale ghost. He has no time to chat or console. He knows she won't last.

  He gets in his car and reverses. A car races by; it's a blast of screeching metal. It was so close. He breathes a moment. Hurriedly, he gets out and locks the gate, then returns to the car and pulls out.

  Down the street is Sunset Boulevard, right in Hollywood. He lives in one of the most densely trafficked places and the cars on Sunset are now jammed bumper to bumper. He sees an opening through the packed cars.

  God let me through. God let me through. God let me through.

  He accelerates, staring at the opening. A car rushes forward and slams into another car. The violent metal crunch shifts everything. There's still an opening. He guns it and makes it through.

  The way to his daughter's school has always been against morning traffic. He drives past lines of cars going the other way. He looks at all the people in their cars. They seem frustrated but oblivious to the horror. Some are texting, while others are resting elbows on window sills while grasping their hair. One honks while another yells back to chill.

  One dares to go in the opposite lane and faces Dad. The onlooker is still sane, waving apologies. Dad is unconcerned by conventions and takes the nearest driveway up into a yard then past the other car and back down the next driveway. The Prius makes the bumps -- barely.

  He turns down a side street lined with two and three story apartments and lots of greenery. It seems almost quiet. It's a muffled sanctuary amidst a storm. He drives along, accelerating. His hope builds. At a cross road, a four way stop, it's clear. He drives out and looks both ways then crosses quickly. Behind him, out of nowhere, two black SUVs race past. They are big SUVs that would have destroyed his little Prius. Chills run down his spine. They are gone.

  Putting foot to pedal, he 'guns' the battery of his silent electric toy car. It moves down the narrow road. Cars are parked thick on each side, walled in by high apartments. A lone blue car blocks the narrow road. Someone drove into a parked car and abandoned their smashed vehicle. No one is inside. He drives up to it and looks about. Down the street, hurried shadows of people run across the way. They are scrambling or hopping along.