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

by Smorynski, Ron

  He rushes down to meet several zombies crawling over cars. He rushes through the cars, staying on solid ground as the zombies run haphazardly. They bump into cars, rolling and crawling over. Many zombies bottleneck between cars, seemingly unaware of each other, only obstacles to over come. He hacks as they come forth. He may cut right through an arm but the arm-less zombie continues at him, colliding and scrambling to bite.

  They slam against a wall of steel supported by skill and muscles. It's like a fleshy noodle bouncing off a rock. They flop down biting and clawing at shield or blade or metal greaves. Dad times his outward swing, slicing heads to and fro. Limbs fly. Torsos slide off.

  His steel shield had a leather bound trim to limit the edges from cutting or harming other hobby fighters. But he removed it and sharpened the edges. As they grab the edges, he yanks up and fingers fly. He shield punches, crushing open and undefended mouths. Teeth break back into biting gums or fly out as heads jerk back violently.

  Several leap upon him at once, but their frenzy does not match his focused force, his setting of powerful legs and thrust of body and arms. He shield punches at the right moment. They splatter and crack skulls against his shield. As they fall, he steps over them, hacking and slashing. His skill comes into play with the circling return of his sword. He conserves energy by swinging in circular yet powerful motions.

  As the zombies come, leaping over cars and running between them, Dad swings and hacks, stepping this way and that. He takes on two or three that grab at him. He easily bashes and punches them. As he swings his metal shield or elbow, his powerful movements smash through the converging cannibals. As they flounder, he circles the blade to hack and sever. His motions are skilled in tight quarters. It is a skill learned from melee fighting and takes years to not only comprehend but implement. A zombie grabs his shoulder or arm, he makes a tight circular movement on that limb, ripping the grip and forcing the zombie down. It is unbalanced and tottering, exposing its neck to the immediate slash of the blade.

  The blade sinks into the rotting flesh and bone effortlessly. To him, he is somewhat surprised by the give of their flesh. Perhaps it's because he never actually cut human flesh before. With the few fun moments he has had with watermelons, cantaloupe, and pumpkins, he certainly knows how effective a blade is but this is just ridiculous. Is his blade a Star Wars light saber? Just melting through flesh and bone?

  With each swing, a severed part generally flies. And if not, the blade easily sinks into neck or shoulder, going a foot in. He opens huge gaping gore holes where blood and guts spurt forth. The zombies definitely have some sort of adrenaline boost, making their hearts pump at enormously explosive rates. Blood flies like a samurai flick. If angled right, he severs the spine and the zombie twirls away with upper and lower parts. Some flail on the ground, spewing their entrails. He has no time to finish them as others furiously charge in.

  It has been several years of training that has lead him to this point. He was obsessed at perfecting the skills and being brutal. He was looking for a hobby, something mannish and bravado, for some time. Being married, he was getting fatter and slower and knew if something didn't get him off that couch, he was going to die from a heart attack.

  He did running and weights to some degree. But he had filled his weekends with the worst fast food gorging and couch potato marathons. If only he could find some active hobby to distract him on weekends. He had a mid-life crisis so common in his pear-shaped generation of softening effeminate flabby men. He looked into scuba diving but learned the waters off the Southern California Coast were murky at best. He wasn't too interested with being stuck with less than a half hour of oxygen down in the creepy dark oceans of California. It seemed unappealing to encounter a shark a few feet from his fat seal body.

  Then he looked into kayaking but lost interest after the price of the kayak, the far away locations, and a few news stories of 'lost at sea' and 'mistaken for seal by great white'.

  Eventually, at a hobby convention he saw two guys in full armor in a boxing ring showing off their medieval ware and their loud clacking rattan swords. Without even understanding the costs and time and frustrations, he got their website info and found the local chapter and immediately went. They had loaner armor for him to borrow. It was the most vile, mildew-ridden stench of stuff. He only wore it once at the practice. After that, he rushed home to eye-rolling wife and daughters in his giddy foot tapping demeanor to tell them about it. He was hooked.

  He easily sold it to his wife as a get off the couch weekend esprit de corp. And thousands of dollars later with each succession of armor from plastic to leather to steel, he advanced not only in gear but in skill and prowess.

  He realizes that his crazy hobby, his skill at sword, his endurance to upkeep the ferocity and his awareness of battle, have lead to his being prepared for this zombie apocalypse.

  He hears a slight repeated crack-crack sound. A zombie runs at him. Its head jerks back and it drops. He looks up to his house beyond the hedges and atop the roof. Charlotte and Lena are aiming. They are laying low on the roof. Both are at the opening they made there to see out the front. The front porch has a flat roof that they are on. Lena has her shotgun, the twelve-gauge with the slugs and not the twenty-gauge with buckshot. Well, she did listen to his explanation of the shotgun: for range, you gotta use slug shells over the buckshot.

  They fire down at zombies running along the street. One's head explodes. Okay, that was Lena firing the twelve-gauge for sure. It kicks up high but she uses all her physique and determination to aim and fire. Dad can hear Lena and Charlotte.

  “Whoa! Ah Yah!” They high five.

  Zombies turn toward them.

  “Shut up and get down!” Dad yells. The zombies turn back to him.

  They duck but are still aiming their rifles. Lena pumps the shotgun quietly inside the attic opening.

  “Don't fire near me! Got it! And if they sense you, then stop firing and hide. Do not answer back! Just give me a thumbs up,” Dad says as he is cutting and hacking.

  They thumbs up.

  He continues with the slaughter and the girls shoot at zombies scrambling up. Charlottte does fine with the 22. The wife has magazines ready. Lena is a surprise with the 12 gauge. She could have gotten the AR-15 but chose this. Dad didn't have time to ask why. He can tell she is having a tough time firing it. It has a big kick. But she remembers to lean into it. And she has on the armor and hockey helm. So other than a little stunned kickback from each shot, her adrenaline and probably love for Dad has her focused.

  There are several different types of zombies. There are fast ones that look fresh, bloodied and rabid. Then there are stiffer ones. Perhaps they turned after being dead awhile. Or perhaps after turning, they slowly stiffened. Then there are those who are just so badly mauled, their movement and lack of flesh has them flopping along.

  “Shoot the slow ones! Easier to hit!” he yells as he is swinging away. Fortunately, zombies do not understand English nor that he is yelling to his girls on top of the roof. The slower ones are yards back, hobbling along the road. One drops as its head jerks. Charlotte shot that one. Another has its head blown up. That's Lena and the twelve-gauge slug. He must be careful as he is engaging zombie after zombie, hacking away and stepping to a new location to get away from the piles of dead. He is trying to see how well they are shooting but in so doing, loses focus, allowing another fast zombie to leap upon him. He twirls about yanking in fierce circular motions to wrench free then quickly chops open the frantic, biting zombie.

  Many zombies climb atop cars which is perfect for Dad. He does one sweep to cut off legs and feet. They drop and use their arms to crawl, wherein their heads are fully exposed for another slice. Skullcaps fly, faces split, and zombies die on top of the cars.

  He gets atop a car and lets them surround him. He swings down in circular motions, slowly circling, cutting heads below, and severing outreached arms. He must be careful not to exhaust himself. He is beginning to feel the pang
s of aching muscles. And what if he were to suddenly get a cramp, a sudden pull or tear? A horde of zombies would be all over him, taking him down. Under a pile of zombies, they'd surely find a spot to bite through to his flesh. He could probably never get up from that weight.

  He doesn't notice the slower zombies dropping like before.

  He looks up at them, through his helm smiling. Lena is pointing up the street. It seems like slow motion, the way she is pointing. Charlotte is stunned, mouth agape. His wife looks at his eyes once again. Dad finally realizes what Lena is motioning to.

  He turns to look.

  11. The Horde

  ...comes like a massive cloud of bees. It swarms down the streets and yards. It is an ocean of flailing arms so thick that cars are pushed aside and ferocity bursts forth. Dad can see the massive sea of bobbing heads surging up and down. If he stays, they'll amass in the entire area, swarming over everything. Like a great deluge, they swirl from around street corners, from around homes, and up against the school fencing.

  He is not sure the girls on the roof can hear him amid the crashing waves. The zombie howls pound the senses. “I have to go!” He waves them away. “HIDE!”

  They immediately duck into the attic.

  Dad steps up a bumper to the hood and atop a car. He flails his arms and screams as loud as he can to attract all the attention. The cars are bumper to bumper. The Horde's long arm of zombies are reaching or crashing into him. He turns to flee, in steel, well fitted. He can manage. He hobbles and leaps on the cars on his way down to Sunset Boulevard. He doesn't know why but he feels like he is flying. There are scattered zombies that he slashes as he runs from car to car but they are not The Horde. It is pouring down from the hill, coming from Hollywood Boulevard. They must have amassed in the tourist area of Hollywood.

  He goes up and down cars, leaping about, shield bashing zombies. The Horde is gaining on him like a fast moving sludge. Cars are pushed aside or buried under The Horde's waves.

  Dad must have killed twenty or thirty tracking up and down the cars but that is just a drop in an oncoming flood. He reaches Sunset Boulevard. He steps off a car and runs through, bashing and slicing at the convergence of a few scattered zombies. They twirl, smashing their heads back against car windows and flying over hoods. His steel gauntlet fist smashes into faces then swings away as a blade comes swooping down to slice heads open.

  He has got to remember to breathe. He can feel the hoarse hyperventilation. He must suck air through his nose. He must breathe.

  The Horde with its vast tendrils is nearly upon him. He turns to run along the storefronts, bashing through oncoming zombies. Zombies fly, flailing into store windows. His sharp turn bought him some time. The Horde's masses can not make sharp turns. As the first wave tries, the second crashes in on it causing a massive pile up.

  He sees a motorcycle. It is between two cars. Whoever was on it must have stopped and parked it as the bike leans on its kick stand. The motorcyclist must have stopped there, trying to figure out something then got attacked or ran on foot. He sees the keys still in the ignition.

  He leaps upon it. He sheathes his sword frantically but must drop his shield. He starts it. He can't hear it over the howls of zombies but he can feel its rumble. He pushes the bike back. Several zombies leap on him. They bounce off his armor. He swats away just enough so he can go. Just as he swerves and rides along the sidewalk, The Horde corrects itself and crashes into the cars, storefronts, and the bus stop. The massive flailing energy is all around him.

  He drives, weaving in and out. There are many cars that attempted the very same thing and are jammed into benches, streetlight poles, and storefronts. A mini mall to one side gives him some space. He races onto the lot.

  Coming down the side street is another wing of The Horde. It is an offshoot, an overflow into other streets and openings. It’s a globular side arm, seething forth beyond the vast frenzied mayhem behind him. They are like excited bees and suddenly jerk and focus to charge at him. He turns awkwardly through jammed cars. For a split moment, he sees people within a car still laying low, hiding. The Horde crashes into the car, smashing windows. The screams are immediately drowned out.

  Dad had a motorcycle during college in this same hectic city and drove it adroitly through traffic during his invincible youth years. His skills twenty years later are still like second nature now. He zips it along remembering clutch and gas and balance. In steel, he is a knight riding a horse through a hell of frothing demons. As he turns, the new frenzied wing of The Horde reaches him. Like a surfer, he must bend down and speed up as the whitewash of zombies pours forth. To his right, the original mass of The Horde is catching up. Cars are uplifted and turned.

  Hiding humans get obliterated in their cars by grabbing and ripping hands. No one can hide. Everyone is revealed. His ride is the ride of death for those who tried to hide in their cars. Quietly, they hid in paralyzed fear these last couple of horrifying days. And their end is a horrific earthquake of death. He mutters a prayer for them under his breath.

  He barely drives through a mass of piled up cars on Sunset as the crashing waves of The Horde smash into each other. The massive multi-limbed collision becomes their own slowing mechanism. The two wings meet in an epic bash. The first few rows of zombies, fast and furious, are impacted so intensely. It's like a meat grinder. It's like having blood filled balloons smacking between two incoming brick walls. Waves crash upon each other as flesh onto rocks, smashing and splattering as hundreds converge.

  The Horde piles over itself to veer towards this mounted knight. The Horde's massive crowd is amazing to behold. Its immense crowd grabs out as it turns but then gets rolled under and squished by the fourth and fifth rows of zombies pushing forward. This gives Dad some time, some wiggle room as it converges.

  Dad has to stop and go, yank and twist his handlebars to get through the tight cars to find a path. As The Horde pushes cars and trucks to the edges of streets, it corrects and redirects itself towards him. He gets a moment to backtrack and go another way. He finds his freedom down a neighborhood street.

  The parked cars constrained the traffic from the first day to the street, keeping the sidewalks clear. He slaloms the motorcycle through a cluttered sidewalk of bodies. Some are so eaten, that he drives right over, squishing and splatting stale blood.

  Zombies are scattered everywhere but as they hear The Horde, they gather to it. As he drives down a block, he sees more zombies rushing toward him. They crush their own in their frenzy collecting and growing The Horde. He glances quickly behind to see where The Horde is. He's gained some distance on them. They are fast on foot, but mounted like he is with his steel horse, he has gained some distance.

  He slows as loners come, then bashes them with his steel forearm. They come on without any defense or awareness of the immense power of his steel. They come to join the frenzy of The Horde. He is able to ram his steel gauntlet in their face, their jaw, their teeth, their cheekbones. All of his head punches crush their brains.

  He drives though, quickly, easily, not at full motorcycle speed, but in good spurts. He slows down in open areas, then races along again. If a zombie is directly in front, right in front, he slows down and times a stop, waiting for the run up, then smashes their head in with his gauntlet. The Horde is behind him, tearing up the streets, the cars, the trees, the fences. It comes on like a massive sludge.

  He looks back and sees a car up end and completely roll over as The Horde pours through the block. He sees many people on their balconies outside their Spanish style apartments. They see him and point and then see The Horde and point and hide. But it's too late. He races on.

  The Horde has many eyes and many senses. Perhaps the first few hundred are intent on him, but the others sense outwards. At one apartment, a group of people do not hide fast enough. A swarming arm of The Horde diverges to the small two-storied duplex, like a crashing wave. The residents on the balcony do not get it. They are staring, screaming, grabbing their hair, and
holding bottles of liquor and smokes. The Horde climbs itself up to the balcony, pouring over it. The building collapses by the sheer weight. The balcony and residents flop over and into The Horde's welcoming arms. The structural posts at the front end crackle and stucco cornices drop and crumble and on and on. Inward it collapses as zombies crush themselves against structures and are met with more zombies and the entire structure bursts from the weight.

  The exploding collapse and the screams within are not heard above the growls of The Horde. Residents drown as the storm of crashing zombies rips their building. The walls crash downward and against other buildings. The pouring of zombies is like a vast blob, oozing into adjacent apartments and garages, tearing through lower floors, and shaking their foundations. Like feelers, the zombies spread everywhere. When they find hidden humans, scores of zombies immediately ingest them. It's nothing Dad can see or hear as he races on.

  At the next intersection, he has more time to see his path. There are many cars piled and jammed. The parked cars have kept the sidewalks relatively open. He continues racing from block to block, bashing in a few quick reacting zombies then racing along. The Horde is still behind him but at a distance now. He has some space even from nearby zombies. He stops and looks back.

  They are a block away and seeming to slow, to lose interest. He does not know if The Horde has overwhelmed his family or not. His emotions choke him up inside but on the outside, he is an armored warrior mounted on steel. He ponders. He can not leave them there, not near his house. He decides to drive back up the street. He unsheathes his machete and waves it, getting closer to The Horde. The edges are milling in their crowded herd. He ponders the concept of racing around on the motorcycle and hacking off heads with his machete as his new style. But a sudden wobble and a near crash as a zombie leaps changes his mind - nope, not a good idea. He decides to ride steady and let them come to him. As one leaps on him, he circles his arm fiercely, dislodging the zombie's weak bite on his steel. It tumbles as he swings down. The face is sliced off and bits of brain topple out.