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

by Smorynski, Ron

  “Let me in! I'm coming around!” the man runs to the back door.

  “Honey, get up there now!”

  The wife drops everything and scrambles back to the closet.

  Dad lifts up his sword as the man runs to the back door. Dad charges. The man opens the door and looks wide eyed. He is holding his shoulder.

  “Please oh God, help me!”

  “Did they bite you!?” Dad yells at the man.

  “Yeah, yeah, but I'm okay!” The man hobbles in.

  Dad kicks him out, forcefully. The helpless man stumbles backwards, weak, tired. The man rolls, tumbles back onto the deck. Dad steps out barefooted, with sword in hand and rears the sword up. The man rolls to look up, holding up his bloodied hand, blocking yet defenseless against Dad's two handed arc.

  “Please!!!”

  The sword cuts through his forearm and into his head. The man quivers a bit and slides off the sword, gurgling blood.

  A zombie runs past them, into the backyard, sniffing and grunting. Then like someone with a radar, pivots back toward them. He leaps upon the dead man. Dad backs away. He realizes he doesn't have his arm greaves on. The zombie instinctively jumps up. Dad swings and misses. The zombie slams crazily into Dad. His biting motion is fast and repetitive.

  Dad is familiar with the back deck, the narrow confines, and the supporting beams. The zombie is not and bounces off one, losing his grip on Dad and his ability to connect his bite. As the zombie slams against the wall, Dad swings upward. The blade fits right under the chin into the soft of the Adam's apple and pops bone. The zombie flops down.

  But more run in, on both sides, from the driveway and the opposite walkway. The gate and front fence have limited the horde's ability to mass quickly, but they are still coming one at a time. The ferocious ones seem to be the first. Others are slamming into the neighbor's fence, from the earlier attack on the neighbor's and haphazardly climbing over the six foot wall. Dad turns to immediately kick a zombie back. It flails back slamming the back door shut. It leaps up as several more come around the corner. Dad retreats and hurriedly rushes into the guesthouse.

  Whoever owned the house before, perhaps built this small unit for a nanny or maid, but this modern family uses it as storage. He dashes inside it, slams the metal door closed and locks it.

  He stumbles over boxes and bags and a dust ridden chaise lounge. He pulls closed the sheets covering each window, the north, the west, and the south side. Thankfully the windows to the guest house are all barred. He obsessed years back on keeping this room secure for his computer hardware, back when he tried to start an animation business. Each window has the black security bars and the door has a metal screen. However, his sense of security is overwhelmed by the rush of zombies around it.

  Through a narrow slit, he can see several leap upon the man he killed. He had to. With the bite he had, there was no time. There was no time to let the man cry or for Dad to second guess. There was even anger in his swing, to kill, to silence that fool forever.

  “Drawing zombies to my family! How dare you!” Dad froths under his breath, as he spots the zombies devouring the man. They've barely swept the attic and they're going to die because of this selfish, stupid bastard. The panic of fools surrounds Dad in this city, that could lead zombies right to his family. Dad clenches his fist in bitterness, stuck helpless and surrounded. He didn't put into the equation of survival the stupidity and panic of others, running into his sanctuary. His anger toward the man is murderous. He feels an overriding rage of vengeance against him even though he is already dead. Burn in hell, Dad seethes.

  Another half dozen zombies suddenly rush past his metal door and are upon the dead man. Through the window facing the dead man, he can see the zombies, frenzied, feasting on the fool's flesh.

  Dad is a few feet away from them, hidden within the guesthouse. The wood door to the guesthouse is open. The metal frame is the second door. Its a screen door, a dense meshing of metal for security. The zombies are collecting all around him now. He remains quiet, controlling his frantic breathing, dripping a torrent of sweat, and trying not to trip over any of the boxes and junk.

  He can see through the slits of sheets at each window, into his backyard. Zombies.

  Suddenly, his dog barks. Somehow, the scarf came off or got loose. Rondo must have gone crazy leashed up in the bedroom. Dad is raging. His family will die because of their love for that stupid dog. The zombies will break in. Did his wife make it up? Did she pull up the ladder? He didn't know and calling out would enrage the zombies.

  The zombies reaction to Rondo’s barking is strange. They become less frantic, twisting and turning with each bark in a strange motion, as if scanning or pondering their next confused move. They aren’t doing their normal crazed rabid reaction pursuing after the dog, but just stand there with a curious disposition. They don't seem to pinpoint the noise either and do not attempt to break through the windows of the house.

  Dad looks through the door mesh trying not to move, standing with legs spread over several boxes. He stares through the mesh as the zombies still excited meander around the backyard. They crowd on the walkway separating the guesthouse from the main house. The dog's bark echoes so loud, right inside the bedroom windows. The windows are curtained so the dog is hidden. The dog's bark is so loud it vibrates the windows. Dad's sweat intensifies. The dog will not stop barking.

  “Rondo! Be quiet!” Dad hears Charlotte yell.

  NO!!!

  6. Besieged

  The zombies’ movements suddenly intensify and they turn toward the house. They jump up and down bashing against the back door and window frames.

  “Dad!” Charlotte cries.

  The zombies increase in rage. They grab at the shingles and door, glass shatters and the window sill is ripped.

  “CHARLOTTE, SHUT THE FUCK UP!! SHUT UP!!”

  .......

  All the zombies stop suddenly, with bits of wood splintering and glass cascading.

  “Charlotte, stop talking. Stop making noises GOD DAMN IT!” Out of absolute authority as the Dad and in his anger and frustration at her disobedience and her emotional state, he is at the metal door, still closed, yelling, “Stop your God Damn talking! I will deal with this, not you! NOT YOU!”

  Do the zombies have some mental semblance of their former selves? Because they turn, almost stunned at the bravado of Dad yelling just on the other side of a metal screen door right behind them. The zombies turn away from the house and grab at the metal mesh inches from Dad's face. Rondo's bark fades compared to the volume of growls and gnashing of teeth. The zombies herd away from the house as Dad repeats his anger to his daughter. They growl in excitement, sensing their noisy prey so close.

  “Stay quiet! Ignore Rondo! Rondo... STOP barking!”

  Only four walls, barred windows, and a metal mesh separate him from them. They leap repeatedly upon the door. The metal screen suddenly buckles. Dad stumbles backward into the boxes and bags. It seems to hold for now.

  The glass breaks at the windows. The bed sheets are ripped and torn away revealing their masses. Black-nailed zombies pull away the sheets and grip the bars, pushing and pulling to get in. Their strength is dampened by the sheer amount of them pushing in, grabbing at each other and at the bars. Sunlight streams in. The room is flickering with light rays and shadows and the momentous shaking of such grueling rabid veracity.

  Dad sits upon his pile and is unafraid. He snarls at the evil around him. He has this moment to look at their ravenous eyes, voracious mouths and the sheer anger in their snarls. And then he remembers.

  He stands, turns, and opens several large plastic tubs. He pulls out his steel armor. He unpacks the pieces and lays them out in the order he needs to put them on. He wipes his bare feet, then dons the cheusse pants, thick padded leggings. He wraps a large leather belt around his waist. He puts on some thick socks, an old pair of hiking boots and buckles leg greaves onto his shins. To his upper legs and knees, he adds the steel cuisse pieces tying all
of that up to his belt. From another plastic bin he pulls out a gambeson. It is a thick padded coat, the undergarment for the armor. He attaches arm greaves that cover forearm, elbow, and half of the upper arm to the gambeson's tie points. He ties the shoulder plates to upper tie points on the gambeson. He then puts the awkwardly weighted coat on, quickly yanking up and pushing through his arms.

  He buckles each arm piece, tightening to his sweating arms covered in the padded gambeson. His weight and size increase with each new piece strapped on. It's difficult doing it himself but in this moment. It all flows like a dream. He buckles them firm.

  He pulls out a steel brigandine style breastplate that covers his torso. It's pieces of steel are connected by a leather coat. It is made up of buckled sections, each with their own overlapping plates. He somewhat jostles it up as he fits into it, to get it over his armored arms.

  He is creating a massive warrior of nearly impenetrable steel and thick padding. He squeezes on the steel medieval helmet. And finally he pushes on, then punches firm, his gauntlets.

  There is no zombie opposition beyond the cracking walls and windows that could match this fortress of mobile steel. His courage and determination are now solid and unshakable. In his mind, he plans what to do, “I am going that way through them, ALL OF THEM.”

  Since they can clearly see him, the zombies continue in their frenzy. One of the window bars is bending inward. It will eventually give. The zombies reach in, clawing the air to get close to him. More are leaping from behind. Some are getting crushed, such that their heads crack like eggs and ooze through window bars. The walls and inner structure creak audibly even with the crazed cacophony of zombie growls.

  Dad raises his faceplate once before buckling it tight. “Do not cry out!Do not cry out Charlotte! Do not answer me Charlotte! Stay quiet! I have on all my plate armor! I am going to fight the zombies, to the death! Charlotte, Lena, my wife! I love you! Pray to God for me!” The Zombies are loud, yet he feels a sense of clarity in his yelling voice and hopes his family hears him, “Fight my cause Oh Lord with them that hunt me! Fight those that fight against me. Take hold of shield and sword and stand up for me Oh Lord! Draw spear and stop them that persecute me! For you are my salvation Oh Lord!”

  He is not totally sure if they heard him. The noise of the zombies is like a train circling around him. It is a rusty, grating, scraping, screeching, crashing, burning train. His hands shake violently at first, trying to slam the faceplate tight to the helm. He stops and breathes, prays again to the almighty, to God, to Jesus, to the Holy Spirit. His heart pounds fiercely. His whole body beats as one. He can feel the pounding so strongly that when he stands still, he bobs.

  He was never the best fighter when it came to tournaments. He had only gone to a few. They were based on points, on hitting spots, much like fencing. But at wars and melees type events, where shields and mass fighting were involved, he was the talk of the events. Many a frustrated fighter would complain that he was too aggressive. He was too big and hit too hard and bashed beyond the rules too much with his shield to the point of creating unsafe play. He used to play football. He used to dance to hardcore industrial. What could he say?

  Well now, none of that mattered.

  One of the window bars buckles as the weight of zombies pull it down. Dad turns that way. A zombie squeezes through the opening, ripping and clawing at anything to pull itself through. Dad calmly pulls out his sword.

  The zombie is half way in, flailing its torso. Dad feels the weight of his sword. Twirls it once. All around him is the voracity of rabid ghouls screeching at the top of their torn vocal chords. The sound is stadium like, echoing repeatedly by rows and rows of them.

  He begins.

  He swings down upon the zombie; an arm is lopped off. The zombie falls all the way in, bones cracking from the squeeze. It stumbles within the cluttered confines. Dad swings again and hacks the blade into the head. It crumples. Dad steps over storage boxes to plant feet firmly before a window. He smacks away reaching arms with his metal gauntlet to expose their faces. He sets his blade into the open mouths of zombies. Though it is loud, he can hear or perhaps feel the vibration of teeth biting steel, but not strong enough to resist him pushing the blade in. It is a fierce jab that crushes through the back of the mouth, then through the spine. With a quick twist of blade, the spine pops. The zombie goes down. Easy. He repeats. Over and over as zombies drop, another claws atop. He jabs into their mouths, into their necks, twisting open spines and nervous systems. He hits many through eyes, piercing back and forth to mush brain. One drops and another replaces. When the wall of dead zombies blocks up one window, he switches to the next.

  Dead zombies pierced through mouth, nose, eyes, dead brains or split spinal cords drop. Dozens upon dozens are dead within minutes. He pauses to get his breath. He realizes he must pace himself.

  He switches to the third window and uses the same technique, but slower and more methodical. They all go down. There are more zombies beyond, but they're blocked by the dead. They know he's in there, but they do not know how to remove their own to get through. At the door they are banging like crazy. He must open the door and fight them full on. The door opens outward against their weight.

  He takes off his helmet. Fortunately, he had stored water and dog food in here in case of earthquakes or another commie riot or this. He grabs a bottle and drinks it. With all the armor on, he sweats a lot and needs to ensure he's hydrated. The exertion and duration increase his risk of slowing and making mistakes or fainting. The water revives him. He looks at the bag of dog food. He rips it open. One might think he would pause to consider his choice, but in this situation, an apocalyptic zombie devastated era, he grabs a hand full and munches. His daughter Charlotte is right, they are tasty.

  Though he should be saving water, he pours a bottle on his head to cool down. This seems to rage the zombies even more. It amuses him. His hair has more sweat than water, but he feels refreshed. He is thinking a bit clearer now. His toolbox is on the floor with tools scattered everywhere. He had been meaning to organize it for years. He looks for and eventually finds the hammer and crowbar. He finds a tear in the steel mesh of the door and tugs at it. The zombies skitter in crazed desire for him.

  He tugs to open a hole in the mesh. The zombies get more excited. Their weight strains the door, but it holds. They do not think to manipulate the forces of physics to their advantage to pull out the security windows or doors. Dad doesn't put his helmet back on yet. He is protected by the steel mesh, pile high dead zombies, and the four walls. He begins the long task ahead, the arduous yet controlled task of jabbing blade into any orifice or soft part of the head or neck. As one zombie drops at the door, another pushes in to gain the coveted spot. Dad jabs again. He draws them to the hole, and then jabs out quickly.

  “Honey, girls, I am jabbing at them through the bars and door. I'm killing them. Blade to brain or cutting the neck, the spine! Just stay up there and wait! And don't answer for God's sake! Let me take care of this!” Dad yells over the din of groans and growls. He can't tell if there are less or more zombies, only that there are so many dead ones against the guesthouse muffling everything.

  He continues one by one jabbing and slaughtering. The pile of zombies limits his sword jabbing through the hole. It is time for him to go out. But how? He looks around. He is surrounded by dead zombies. It is a pathetic situation. He puts his helmet on and picks up his shield. He unlocks the security door. There are many zombies piled nearly head high, leaning against the door. He pushes the door out while zombies beyond sense him and leap to the pile. Dad must use concentrated force to push back.

  The door pushes out to a walkway. Zombies come from both sides. He gets the door pushed out and leans his back on it and lifts up his shield. The zombies from behind get stuck there. He clears one side enough to move out. He swings tight in the confined area. He resorts to hard pushes, knocking zombies back. Fortunately, they are not coordinated and flop about.

  He
pushes again. The bodies roll away, bit by bit. As he pushes to get an opening, a new zombie rushes in reaching and grabbing. He kicks the zombie hard outward, unbalancing its advance. He shield bashes several to make room. They topple over, but the mass of zombies keeps pushing back. He almost falls himself. He realizes he has to watch his step. The ground is covered with dead zombies. He topples, hits a wall and bounces back up. He moves forward enough that the guesthouse door swings against his back. Zombies charge from both ends of the walkway. He moves back so the door remains against his back, continuing to block off one side. He stays fully focused on what is in front of him.

  He slices furiously one way while managing to brace the screen door the other. The zombies stumble over each other to get to him. He swings up and down in a circular motion, hacking away at skulls and faces, ears and collar bones, necks and forearms. His motions are practiced, giving the most effect with the least effort. He twists the body and torques the upper arm, letting the elbow fall and wrist flick, then returning quickly for the next swing.

  He has never swung a cutting blade at humans. He's done a few melons for the fun of it. He has been able to swing clean through them. These zombies with their dead flesh and decaying muscles seem weaker, more giving. It's as if the infection has somehow diluted the core cells or strength inherent in flesh and bone.

  He realizes they make good door stops. As they fall at him, he matadors aside to let them hit the steel mesh door behind him. He finishes them there. The door is good and stuck. The zombies are unaware of the weight and force needed to loosen the pile. Dad aware of the lucky advantage advances, swinging tight circular arcs like a figure eight over his helmet and shield. He cuts deep gashes into zombie after zombie. Some cut so deep they sever limbs, head, and spine. The sheer force of his swings and shield bashes instantly debilitate or outright kill the zombies.

  For several years, Dad diligently practiced sword work on his pell, a wooden post. He had mastered this technique. Requiring untold hours upon hours developing muscle memory, the movement uses one's own torso, legs, and motion of swing to the fullest effect. Dad has had this down for awhile now and instinctively knows at each momentous arc, the right pull of muscle to increase the speed and strength of the swing.