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

by Smorynski, Ron

  He has made many different practice pells. They have gone through many stages, from just a metal pole, to being wrapped with thick moving blankets and duct tape, to a heavy wooden post. He bolted blown out tires found on the side of the road to the wood, for the sole purpose of being able to hit as hard as he can over and over without wearing out his own joints or his practice swords. A member of his sword fighting group, an ordained Knight, informed him that hitting a pell hard will never beat it and is not required. They told him to focus more on form than ferocity. But he couldn't help himself. He always practiced with a ferocious disposition all these years.

  And now he does it with abandon upon each and every zombie that comes after him. He circles his guest house hacking at each one that attempts to come near. He shield bashes when three or four bound at once. He scatters them with his full weight and another forty pounds of full metal armor. He is disciplined, timing his swings just right versus their wild and rabid flailing.

  The zombies totter backwards in all directions. They awkwardly attempt to regain their footing. As he steps over dead ones, he hacks and swipes at the live ones, one after another. He moves into the opening of the backyard. Zombies come at him from all sides. They come from over the neighbor's fence or up the driveway.

  A few leap upon his backside, but since he is in metal and thick garments, they are ineffective. Their teeth slide off metal and merely chew at the leather and garments. A zombie bite or grip is met with Dad's sheer knightly force. Their decaying rotting teeth crumple against his steel armor or the leather or tight wrung garments. They do not stay on long. His strength is full-bodied unlike their rabid flailing. He circles, swinging sword and shield, bashing at the surrounding zombies. He easily throws off the occasional piggy backer.

  To avoid the pesky back attacks, Dad picks walls to back up to. There are many in the backyard. Maneuvering toward the back, he sees his wife and daughters staring at him from the roof covering. They kneel just under the attic's framework where they removed a few slats. With a squint of light, he can see they're praying.

  He begins anew, pushing forward, slicing through heads. Their skull caps slide off like lids. Zombies drop with open craniums.

  The backyard is a pile of dead zombies. There is a little room to move now. Zombies charge in and stumble over their own. Dad has difficulty stepping through but unlike the zombies, he makes an effort. He has to look down through his medieval helm's holes to see his boot steps. He must take this fight away from the house. He decides to advance down the walkway opposite the driveway. It is narrow and has gates at both ends. He can advance, and then latch each gate behind him sealing them off.

  He goes that way, finds no zombies, and hustles to the front of the house. A zombie follows alongside him against the fence to his left in the neighbor's yard. As he enters the front yard, the zombie clears the fencing and leaps at him. It hits his shield nearly toppling him. He quickly spreads his legs for strength, forcing the zombie to bounce off and fall. He dispenses with it.

  He is behind the hedges in the front yard. A few zombies come from the driveway, rushing past the front yard. He steps back instinctively behind the hedges as they charge down the driveway to the street. He stands back to let them go. He is curious. He still hears groveling and growling from the backyard, perhaps zombies falling over one another and the corpses he left behind. Some come pouring out past him. He is in no mood to chase after them. He is covered in zombie gore and blood. He is breathing heavily, but not bad at the moment. All the days of dog hikes and medieval wars and practicing sword on his pell has prepared him. He regains his energy quickly, at least for now.

  The zombies are within view. He stands by the tall hedges, peering at them. He waits for them to spot him and charge. They don't. They're fanning out now, searching for him or whatever was the ruckus that brought them out. None seem to take note of him. His face and form are veiled in armor. None are terribly close. It seems as if they have lost track of him.

  A few come back up the driveway. To get into the front yard, they'd have to stumble over the broken gate they bent over when they first began the frenzy. To watch them meander seems more tiring than actually fighting them. Each time Dad thinks they will leave or move on, they mindlessly turn again. Some are really close and could plainly see him if they were of the right mind.

  He doesn't hear Rondo barking nor the neighbor's small chihuahuas. He is unsure of his neighbor's situation. As he scans their house, he spots the front window completely shattered. Much of the wooden frame is splintered with blood. It could be from the zombies climbing in or sadly his quaint neighbors being pulled out. He knows they did not survive that.

  Then a noise, a scream from somewhere sounds out and growls rise down the street. He pokes his head out but realizes that sort of movement, that sudden jerk of his head, is something zombies notice. He turns slowly back to view the driveway. The zombies are scrambling past him.

  He can hear the panicked voice of people trying to hold back some other horde. They are yelling to push and to hold some barricade. He can hear a hammer being used. The remaining zombies in his backyard run, hobble, and crawl out of his driveway and down the street to the next “horde gathering.” It must be the office building down the street. It has apartments above. There are doors between storefronts that lead up to several units. Perhaps they are trying to break into one of those.

  A zombie leaps over the fence next to him, some loner from somewhere, and runs right at him. He watches it as it bounces off him and falls to the ground. It scrambles up. He is about to slice down but there is something odd about it. It scrambles away leaping on the fence, tearing up the hedges in a confused manner. Then it finds the fallen gate, trips over that and takes off down the driveway to the other zombie social hour.

  Dad stands there, his muscles stiffening, his exhaustion filling his awareness. With mild concern, he relaxes a bit and walks back through the side walkway to the back yard. Many dead zombies lie there and a few still need to be offed. He notices that his slow movement toward them does not alert them. They take note of him but do not call out. They are confused or unsure of his presence. They sense but are not raged. He uses his swift molinet movement to bring his blade down quickly into one of their heads. Each disabled zombie floundering or crawling doesn't notice as Dad slowly moves within striking distance. A few times he has to wait for a distant zombie to look away and then he flicks his strike on the immediate one in front of him. It drops. The distant one turns as if it senses the sudden drop of a zombie but soon enough meanders away in its own disabled hacked state. And Dad repeats. What a wretched mess.

  He walks back into the house in full plate, gore and all. He doesn't want to leave a mess inside but wants his daughters and wife to know he's okay. He rambles through belligerently in a hurried yet exhausted state. He gets to the bedroom closet door where the hatchway is. Rondo barks at him once. Dad still in full armor and helmet growls for him to shut up. Rondo is terrified of the armor and gore and whimpers. Dad lifts his face plate and speaks, calming the dog.

  “Take it easy, Rondo. Hey Rondo? Easy.” He can't help it. His voice is still manly and gruff.

  He undoes Rondo's leash and pats him on the butt. He makes him go, anywhere, wherever. Rondo merely moves a few paces and lies down again.

  “Dad, why'd you do that?” Charlotte is the first at the hatchway looking down.

  “The zombies don't care for dog meat. I want to see what Rondo does. Just let him do whatever. But don't call out for him anymore. Got it?” Dad raises his full metal gauntlet fist at her. Charlotte nods.

  “Are you alright?” his wife asks.

  “Yes, tired, but with all those dead zombies in the back, I don't think we can stay here. I don't know. We'll see.”

  “You're dirty, you stink and your messing up the whole house!?”

  Dad is stunned.

  “Can you throw them over the wall?” his wife asks.

  ...........

  “L
et me see,” Dad mumbles. He's tired but not ready to sit. Some activity with less strain would be good right now. After a weekend of war fighting with fifty or a hundred guys, he'd come home only to busy himself with cleaning the steel armor so it wouldn't rust, something easy, monotonous and calming.

  “Make sure my bed is ready, okay?” Dad sighs.

  “Okay dear,” his wife says from the opening.

  “Can I help?” Charlotte asks.

  “No!” Lena and Mom reply quickly.

  “Dad?” Lena asks.

  “Yeah?”

  “When can we shoot some zombies?”

  “Oh yeah Dad, me too!”

  “Will you just be quiet,” Dad waves them off. They can't see his smile in the helmet, but can hear it through his voice. He walks back outside and surveys the zombies. They are scattered across the yard. They look easy enough to hack and toss over the wall. He then looks to the left. They are piled high in stacks. A bunch of zombies severed, split, gurgling against the guest house. The easy assessment has now changed to very laborious.

  7. Spring Cleaning in the Fall

  It's the beginning of fall in Los Angeles when it's the hottest. Dad senses the sun's rays bouncing off his steel armor. He feels the heat and sees the steam. He sees the zombie blood splatter drying quickly. There is much work to do. He has a lot to clean. He hopes his wife doesn't see the mess – and nag him.

  He roams around the backyard stepping over piles of bloodied limbs. He peers at the mound of zombies against the guesthouse. He gathers it all in. He walks to the driveway and looks toward the front.

  The front gate is bent over. He doesn't like the feeling of an open driveway. He realizes he can't get in his car in armor, especially blood caked armor. He needs to get his wife to reverse the car to support the gate. Great. He sighs and goes back.

  He stops and sees their faces poking out from the roof. He quickly motions a 'shhh' with his gauntlet. They look at the carnage. His wife shakes her head. Lena shakes her head. Charlotte gives a thumbs up.

  Quietly Dad speaks, “Honey, I need you to come down and help me with the gate. Just need you to reverse the car while I lift up the gate. But be quiet. I'll meet you at the back.”

  Carefully, she has to step over a lot of dead zombies. Its horrific. She looks down at their monstrous faces, fearing anyone of them could suddenly reach out and bite her exposed legs and feet. Dad double checks the ones lying down the walk way, pulling some out so she can get through. He stabs a lot of dead zombies in the head. She shakes with each step over body parts. There are still hands in death grips and mouths opened to bite.

  Down the driveway it's pretty clear. She hustles to the car, dangling the keys. The keys tinkle loudly as she grasps them. She freezes. He freezes. There are a lot of sounds in the city, car alarms still going off, car horns, sirens, gun fire, screams. Things are still happening. Dad motions for her to hurry it up. She gets to the car.

  “Watch the rear view. I'll motion for you to start the car and reverse. You just need to go a couple of feet to hold up the gate.”

  She nods.

  He goes back and pulls it up. Dad waits a bit. She waits wondering when. Suddenly, a car alarm goes off and screams are heard. Dad motions. She starts the four cylinder low noise engine. She carefully reverses the car back. The gate is lifted and supported by the car and holds there. Dad waves for her to stop. She stops and turns the engine off.

  Dad goes back to the car and looks in the window. “Okay, it's good. Put it in park.”

  He opens the car door and quietly motions for her to get out. She crawls out on all fours. There are sounds across the city, violent deadly sounds. She is shaking with fear more than he realized. He can not comfort her while he is in grimy armor so he just waits for her to scurry down the driveway to the back.

  Dad follows her just to be sure he didn't miss any zombies. “Wait,” he whispers harshly as she hurries. She stops. He steps in front of her to look down the walkway back to the rear of the house. The litter of dead zombies is the same. He doesn't see any movement. He walks ahead of her and scans the floor and piles, looking for any crawlers. He motions for her and she follows.

  She gets to the door and looks back to see her husband in huge medieval armor watching her. She can't see his expression in the helmet, but knows it. He is her protector. She calms and goes in.

  She stops and turns. “Make sure you clean up every piece. Every piece.”

  His helm rolls.

  He has a lot of work to do. He stretches again and does some light jumping to get his blood flowing. His armor clangs with each jump but not loud. There are quite a few mounds of zombie bodies and severed limbs.

  He can't have piles of dead zombies rotting just below their refuge, their home. The yard behind theirs is separated by a six foot high cinder block wall and tree shrubs. He thinks one piece at a time. He picks up arms and legs and tosses them over.

  The bodies are a bit tougher. He drags many of them. There are many children in the mix. He doesn't remember killing any. He should feel but doesn't, at least not now. He avoids looking at their faces worrying he'll recognize one of them from his daughter's elementary school. He picks most up by hacking a sickle into them like a hay bale and rolls them over the wall. The sickle, he got for gardening, thinking it was the coolest medieval farming tool. It turns out that for an urban farmer, it's pretty useless. Until now, that is. At this point, he takes his helmet off. He still has plenty of protection and doesn't expect a horde to come, not quickly at least. Fortunately, the driveway and foliage limit the noise.

  As he drags bodies to the back wall, he sees the flesh of the man he killed. It's tone is human -- was human. He pauses in seeing this dead man's partially eaten face. It angers him that this idiot so selfishly would endanger others by running into their refuge. And to bring zombies with him was just too much. He was glad he killed him. Not sadistic but glad that he stopped someone who could hurt others because of his own disregard. That the man was bitten also puffed up Dad's rationalization.

  It is a new world with new choices. Would God accept the things Dad does now to survive? Would He forgive him for the choices Dad makes in split seconds that involve butchery, death, and cruelty? Dad knows that in all life, choosing is not as good as praying and asking God to choose for him.

  Something in him says he should have saved the man. But the man was bitten. Yet, he wonders if he should have saved him, comforted him. Dad twitches. He'll ask for forgiveness – later.

  He pulls down the bodies piled up against the guest house. He starts hacking off limbs to toss them over the back wall. A zombie head notices his face and gurgles. Dad stares calmly at the grotesque head. This one is attempting to bark but can't. In the melee, Dad cut the thing’s neck enough to paralyze it. It was crushed under the pile.

  He wonders as he stares. It gurgles its desire to bark and bite. He moves away and puts on the helmet and returns. The hacked up head doesn't react as vicious as Dad bends in close. He sways to and fro. The zombie is attempting to follow or understand but doesn't react rabidly. Dad tries a quick movement and the zombie gets excited and more aggressive in its gurgling. As he slows down his swaying back and forth, the zombie loses its ferocity and merely gulps like a dying fish on dry land. The helmet fully covers his face and his features.

  Dad surmises there is a recognition thing going on and a movement thing going on. He takes his helmet off in front of the zombie head. Its sunken sullen face suddenly contorts to the vicious evil he expected. Dad carefully jabs at the eyes, popping one out, crushing the other. After a moment of gurgling anger, the zombie's reaction subsides to the gulping fish out-of-water look. He waves his bloodied gauntlet hand near the nose. The zombie is gulping air. Dad takes off the gauntlet and glove to show his sweaty bare hand. He waves that close to the zombie. It immediately reacts, sniffing, gurgling, biting.

  Dad pulls back his hand. Sight, smell, sound, all matter to zombies. Dad ponders a different smell other than
zombie gore. He walks back into the house.

  Lena and Charlotte are at the kitchen counter. The wife has pulled out all the fresh perishables like a salad bar. They are feasting as he works. That makes him happy, sort of.

  “What are you doing down here?”

  “What are you doing coming in like that?” the wife corrects.

  “Just be ready to get back up there,” Dad says.

  “I know, but the girls need to eat.”

  “Yeah, Dad. We're hungry,” Charlotte says.

  “It’s tiring watching you have all the fun,” Lena snarks.

  They giggle.

  “Make me something,” Dad finally realizes.

  “Not in that,” the wife warns.

  Dad is covered in zombie goo. It is partially caked and partially oozing. Next to him is the laundry detergent. He opens it and lathers his bare hand.

  “That is not clean enough honey,” his wife warns.

  “Uh, no, no, just a minute.” Dad goes back out. He walks back to the zombie head to test the subject. He brings the soap lathered hand up to the zombie. It sniffs but doesn't react, not violently, and gulps for air. It can't be breathing. It must be an instinct. Dad kills the head and ponders these observations: how they sense him, using sight, smell, yet in a limited capacity. He thinks about his advantages, like the coverage of his helmet over recognizable facial features. He thinks how he can use these advantages to avoid them. They do not recognize his helmet as a face, so it's a visual thing. His movements need to be slow. And he needs to hide his scent. This is doable.

  He goes back in. “Girls, honey, listen.”

  They look up from their food.