by Tufo, Mark
“And if we’re not?”
“We’ll be running. Either way, you need to rest.”
“I hate this place.”
“We agree on one thing,” I told him. I didn’t think he’d actually sleep, but I was grateful after five minutes when he began to breathe regularly and without snoring. I was already concerned about the smoke and fire giving us away, especially as the shadows from the trees started to grow longer. We were once again in a shit position. To our backs was the majestic mountain: beautiful to look at, extremely difficult to climb. We had trees all around us—perfect cover if our enemy used long-ranged weapons. As it was, most of what we’d fought here was of the “I’m going to eat you” variety, which necessitated that they do their work up close and personal. The trees in this situation worked out better for them. None of that really mattered—if we needed to move in a hurry, BT just wasn’t up for it, and I meant what I’d told him: I wouldn’t leave him. We were in an indefensible position.
BT was sleeping hard, Kalandar had been gone for a couple of hours, the sun had nearly set, and so far I’d yet to hear one far-off shriek. I knew this place well enough to know that kind of luck wouldn’t hold—it just wasn’t meant to.
The first indication I got that things were beginning to turn was a flat, thunking sound. I’d shot enough suppressed weaponry to know it for what it was. Jack’s rifle was suppressed, but what the hell would he be doing anywhere near here? My understanding was that the base wasn’t near Valhalla. I looked over to a slumbering BT, wondering if I should attempt to find Jack and help in any way I could. Then came the much louder percussions of Otter’s weapon. Whatever was going on, they were up to their necks in it.
“Shit,” was all I could manage to say as I tried to peer through the burgeoning murk of the night.
It was BT who echoed my word. “Shit,” he said as he sat up. “Smells like shit. That gunfire?”
There were at least two rifles going. One much louder than the other. Had to be Otter and Jack.
“I need to see what’s going on.”
“Want me to come with you?” BT asked, though he didn’t move.
“I won’t go far—stay awake and alert.”
“And what am I supposed to do if something comes while I’m here?”
I reluctantly handed him my 1911. “You know how it works?”
He immediately turned it sideways like a two-bit gangster. “Relax—just screwing with you.”
I said nothing; I hardly thought this the time. “I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll be right here.”
“What the fuck was Trip thinking,” I mumbled as I left. Now it looked as if Jack and I were going to have a discussion about which of us got to beat some sense into that missing stoner first. The rifle fire began to move—made sense if the enemy was also moving. I was picking my steps carefully as I went down a steep pathway littered with wet leaves, as slippery as if it were coated in ice. More than a few times I had to grab hold of a tree to keep from sprawling. When it finally leveled off, I found myself upon a small ridge roughly twenty feet higher than the roadway some two hundred yards away. What I saw was wall-to-wall zombies. They looked of the old school variety: dead, decaying shufflers. What they lacked in speed and hopefully smarts, they made up for in sheer numbers.
If Jack and Otter were surrounded, no amount of firepower the two could generate would change the tide of that war. The best I could hope to do was shoot and hope to draw some off, but the point of that was about useless—sure I could attract some, but not enough.
“Shit, shit, shit.” I was stuck in indecision as I watched them move along, most not even aware of what was happening, just blindly marching with the rest of the group. As I stood there weighing my less than stellar options, it seemed that my choice was made for me. The firing stopped—either they had got away, or what I chose not to think about had happened. My thoughts turned selfish. I don’t feel like I could be blamed—when all you had was yourself, wouldn’t that be how your thoughts turned?
What chance did I have if I were stuck in this world with only BT? Kalandar had walked into an active shit zone, Jack and Otter could be gone, and BT, without any help, would be joining them soon enough. I had my ass handed to me by an overseer with no more than a flick of its finger; rescuing Trip was as near to an impossibility as I could think on. Hopelessness didn’t even begin to convey the depths of the depression that was settling over me.
“Think, Talbot.” Not my strong suit, never had been. Jack and I figured that when Trip had opened up whatever portals he had, Jack had brought along night runners and I’d brought zombies. At first, we’d thought that a mistake, but more than likely they’d been brought as additional weapons in the war, or maybe he’d meant to bring them all along and not us—we were the mistake.
“What good does that information do you now?” I asked aloud. As if the fun wasn’t enough, I heard the shrieks of night runners, again far off but that could change in a hurry. The only thing I could think to do now was to check on BT. I turned to go and realized that not only was it rapidly approaching night but at least six zombies now stood in the pathway that led back up.
“You’re not deaders, are you?” Phrased as a question, but definitely a statement. They were watching me intently. The pathway zigzagged up the mountain, making the trek not enjoyable but doable. Off to my right was a steep traverse that would make keeping my rifle in the ready position near impossible as I grabbed at growth to keep from falling back. Now would have been the optimal time for my pistol. The zombies were waiting for my move, like a pack of wolves waiting to see what their prey was going to do in an attempt to escape.
I started running up the sheer side. It was then I noticed the sound of feet moving quickly down toward me and others retreating back up the path.
“I hate zombies smarter than me,” I said as I realized what they were doing—some were going back up the trail and were going to wait where I would come out. I had a couple of options: turn and fight now that their numbers had dwindled, or move quicker and beat them to the switchback. I’d gone about twenty feet up, the pace not nearly what I’d hoped for. Winning the footrace was going to be out of the question.
“Fuck it,” I said as I grabbed a small birch, pulled myself up to it, and turned my rifle so I could lean my back against the tree. “Oh, come on,” I said as I brought my rifle up to my shoulder. I was about to go with the clever girl quip, but it’d been done. And it was dark, so I was not quite sure the gender of whatever was chasing me, and in all likelihood, gender no longer made a difference to them. The zombies had fanned out on their approach, and unless the three that had made as if they were going up had backtracked, there were assuredly more than three following me. It was easy to say I was fucked, but that word just didn’t seem to have the scope, breadth, and width of the trouble I was in, so to speak. The zombies going up were without a doubt going to descend on me from on high. Stuck on a slope with zombies converging—yeah, that was a special place to be.
I’d not seen this movie yet, but I already had it figured out. The moment I fired, the report would echo throughout the woods, settling deep into the ear canals of some nearby night runners who would feel compelled to check out the source of the blast. Parties were always the best when more people attended. Dealing with the future would have to wait—the present had its own pressing matters.
I fired, had absolutely no clue where the shot went. Nope, that’s wrong—I knew, at least, that it had not gone into the zombie, which had not slowed at all. I fired again. This time I saw a tree near its shoulder throw a fistful of bark into the air. I was thinking what the fuck, I had the beast dead in my sights, everything was performed as it had been a thousand times before. Target acquired, slow breathing, steady pull back on the trigger, everything except the resultant fall of my target. The zombies were moving quickly toward me; at my shot-to-kill ratio, I should be dead in under a minute. Another well-aimed headshot found its home in the near
est zombie’s shoulder—he was not amused. I let my rifle down a couple of inches, doing my best to reconcile what I saw through my red dot and what was actually happening. It was then that I noticed my red dot device was loose, jiggling slightly; at some point I must have smacked it up against a tree. I could switch to iron sights, but in the dark, it would be like trying to shoot blindfolded.
I could not believe I was going to have to go into spray and pray mode. I did not have the ammunition for that particular tactic; on the flip side, it wasn’t going to be overly difficult soon, as I would be able to press the barrel against their heads once they got closer—would be tough to miss at that point. I worked up a trio of hastily shot rounds, staying center mass with the first; by the third, I put it straight through the nose of the zombie, which fell quickly as the bullet tore through its savage mind. Took down the second in a similar fashion. At an average of four rounds a kill … well, sometimes there’s no need for math when the answer is so obvious. Flipped the rifle on to my back and did the best thing I could: I ran parallel on the slope. It was harder than going straight up, keeping balance at a tilt and over uneven terrain while being chased for your very life—yeah, it was a bitch. More than once I had to scramble for a handhold as the leaves I ran on slid out from under me or an errant root caught the front edge of my boot.
Near as I could tell, the zombies weren’t having the same problems. Don’t quite know when they’d become so fleet of foot. I was running blindly through the woods, my forearms held up to thwart only the most well-placed, eye-poking branches, my head tucked down to help. I was so far doing all right, my breathing not labored. I could hear the zombies in pursuit; my heart was pounding, and it was getting darker by the minute. Clouds and the lack of the moon conspired against me. Soon it would get to the point that I would not be able to see the trees in front of me. I could not turn and fight now; I couldn’t even see them coming. Climbing a tree crossed my mind, but right now I was in a pine-tree-dominated area, and any branches within my reach seemed only big enough to be pulled down and used as an effective switch.
I began to angle my way back up, hoping that I had outpaced the ones trying to encircle me. I spun to the ground as my right elbow collided hard with a tree, the pain flaring red in my brain and black in my field of vision. Sweat was pouring from my head, my teeth were clenched, and my throat was thick as my heart fought its way up. The zombies were much closer than I’d figured. To get up now and get going would not go unnoticed. My heart about stopped as I stretched out my right arm and my locked elbow clicked loudly. The zombies were moving slowly—I’d like to say cautiously, but they weren’t so worried about getting deader as they were about missing out on their meal. It was dark enough now that the only way they could be following me was by sound.
I was thankful that unlike Jack’s night runners, the average speeder did not possess extraordinary hearing or scent detection. The zombies slowed down—yeah, they knew I’d stopped, footsteps no more than ten feet away were slowly approaching. A low groan emanated from the one nearest me. The word creepy comes to mind, then it got worse as an answering groan came off to my left, then right. They were communicating on their hunt, like wolves.
“Perfect,” I said so softly that it never reached my ears. I could only tell I’d even said anything by the vibrations in my facial bones. The footfalls had stopped; if I had dared to reach out, I would have been able to brush my hand against its leg. Was it even now screwing with me? Waiting to attack, mouth first? Would the last thing I saw be the flash of white as its teeth sank into the flesh of my neck? I did not move; even the rustle of my clothes would have been heard. My rifle was uselessly digging into my back, the uncomfortableness only part of my problem as I had gone down in a tangle, my left leg pinned underneath me at an angle making my knee scream in protest. And, I was bracing myself against rolling down the mountain with my right hand, which was on a loose pile of leaves. I was not sure how much longer I could stay in my precarious position, whether I moved myself or was forced to. That and the instinctual desire to defend myself against the attack that I was sure was imminent.
Another step forward, a pause, another groan, another answer back. I heard a twig off to my left snap. It was close. My shoulder was trembling as I fought my weight against the slipping leaf pile. My knee now a blister of pain, I could think of little else except the desire to get into a more maintainable position. There was no movement as the zombies waited for me to make the next gambit. Trouble was a state I found myself in constantly; you’d think I’d be used to it, but even for me, this was above and beyond. If the zombies didn’t move past me relatively quickly, I was going to have to come up with some way to extract myself from this situation. What that was going to be was beyond my ability to grasp at the moment.
Another step, the zombie’s foot dropping down no more than an inch from my hand. With the slow slide I found myself in, I’d be touching him soon enough. I was screaming for him to move on. He wasn’t listening. The groan he issued forth this time was longer and had some variations in pitch; he was transferring more information, but I had no way of knowing what he was saying. The fucker knew something—knew I was close, most likely. A returning groan. I swiveled my head; this one was behind the tree. I got the feeling I was being set up—the one next to me had found me and was gathering backup or telling them that dinner was ready. Either way, didn’t matter. I used pretty much the only option open to me: I pulled my hand up and rolled hard into the ankles and knees of the zombie. I did hear a satisfying snap as he fell over me, then I tumbled twice more before a sapling halted my momentum. I was up quickly, but my left knee had other designs on a hasty retreat.
The chase was afoot again. A hand slapped out, fingertips slid over my cheek, closing a moment too late to grab onto anything of significance. They were all around as I crashed through the woods. My goal had been to go back up, but right now I needed speed, to put as much distance as I could between myself and my pursuers. All around, I could hear the stomping of feet, of twigs snapping, branches breaking, the occasional thump of one or more zombies colliding with a tree or falling over. How they were following me through the maelstrom of noise and confusion I’m not sure. I was yanked back as either a zombie or a branch caught onto the barrel of my rifle; there was a moment of terror when I thought I was going to be stopped completely or fall over backward, then it yielded with a loud crack. Either wood or fingers had broken, didn’t care which. They were so close, I was teetering on the verge of a panicked sprint instead of the semi-controlled run I was currently in.
As lack of luck would have it, I slapped my bad elbow again, pretty much in the exact same spot. White dots danced in my field of vision; luckily, I couldn’t see enough that it was hindering anything. I hit another tree and bounced off to the side—this was getting to be something like live-action pinball. I didn’t like the game when it was played on a table in a brightly lit arcade, and being the ball only made it worse. It really only was a matter of time before what semblance of luck I was holding on to petered out and I crashed face-first into a trunk. I let out a loud “umph” as I once again hit a tree, this time with my shoulder, my elbow and forearm forced back into my ribcage to expel a fair amount of air. I stumbled, my feet landing awkwardly, roots doing their best to tangle me up while leaves tried to have the ground slide out from under me. I don’t know what I’d done to piss off the forest, but when and if I got out of this, I was going to open up a lumberyard.
The front of my thighs added their discomfort to the growing list of ailments presenting themselves. Just as the fire within my muscles began to reach a crescendo, I felt the ground leveling off and the trees getting sparser—either that or I was just avoiding them with some previously unknown echolocation. Tall grass up near my waist was whistling as I brushed past it. I’d run maybe twenty yards when I could hear the zombies entering onto what I figured was the plain. If I didn’t run, I would make no sound, and now I was in a better position to get a hold of
my weapons—but not having visibility past my iris had me fearful of this tactic. Still, I couldn’t run all fucking night, and I was moving away from BT. At some point, I needed to go back. Best bet was staying still and hoping they’d pass me by. In a perfect world, that would be precisely how it went down. But I think it’s safe to say now that Valhalla, wherever that may be, was far from perfect. The zombies employed the same tactic they had as before: stopping when I stopped, in the scariest fucking game of follow the leader ever.
There were groans from behind me, some close enough that I expected to feel the moving air from the sound waves, others further away. I could hear some of them slowly making their way through the grass; unless I imagined it, it very much sounded like they were fanning out into a long line, as a search party might do when trying to find a lost person, or a body, or a trace amount of evidence. As one very organized unit, they began to move, the movement through the saw grass loud enough to allow me to shift my rifle into a more user-friendly position in front of my chest. I reached down and pulled my knife free from my thigh strap. I felt comfort in the weight and held out hope I wouldn’t need to use it. But you know the old adage: better to have it and not need it than not have it and get your face chewed off, or something like that.
I wheeled the second I felt a foot hit the back of my heel, the tip of the blade skittering along what I figured to be the zombie’s cheek, scraping against bone until I came to the relative softness of the temple where my thrust penetrated quickly, scrambling through the muck that made up its mind. All of it happened fast enough that he’d not given out a warning to my location. With my left hand, I did my best to slide the monster quietly to the ground. The line of zombies still moved forward: this was my chance. I moved so slowly the grass I was in would not notice my passing. All was going well for a dozen or so steps before the groans started. I knew what they were doing: checking in. As soon as Fred the Zombie or whatever he called himself didn’t radio in his condition, they were going to know something was afoot.