The blood-soaked sponge his people used as bait smacked into the face of a ghoul already backing away from the fresh bout of ammonia. The thing had the thickened gray skin and intelligent eyes of the New Breed.
Still backing away toward the woods, Kell screamed.
“Now!”
Gunfire erupted from the far side of the huge truck, and just as Kell lost sight of the group as he staggered backward down the incline, he saw them move. Hopefully toward the doors of their vehicles. The small swarm of zombies did not fall from his sight, however; they were moving toward him at a brisk pace.
Turning to run along the edge of the woods at the base of the hill, Kell stopped. He hadn't paid attention to the area ahead, which was impassably choked with cars pushed off the main road. By the time his mind processed that information, the swarm was nearly on him. He spun to fight only to realize hands were both free.
In his haste to throw his other weapons, he'd dropped the spear next to the RV.
The dead moved with all-too-graceful steps, faster and more deadly than the rest of their kind. Maybe smart enough to get his armor free, should he falter, and win the tasty person within it.
Whatever Laura and Kate thought of his motives, in that moment he knew one of their chief concerns was wrong.
Kell wanted to live.
After the briefest hesitation, he turned on his heel and dashed into the woods as fast as his feet could carry him. In the greater scheme of things it wasn't all that fast; his boots were tough but inflexible, making each bounding step a labor in itself. At least the ground at the edge of the woods was clear, making the way forward easy enough to traverse.
Behind him, the roar of engines filled the road, only audible between bursts of gunfire. Thankfully, this very situation had come up in their discussions about the migration. Should one of them become separated from the group, the person should expect the group to stop ten miles south of where they lost him.
Kell repeated that standing order in his head as his feet pounded twigs to dust. A brief glance over his shoulder showed only trees; the foliage was too dense for him to even see the road. That quick look also brought some relief, as the zombies behind him were losing ground. The gap between them had been less than five feet when he took off at the closest approximation of a sprint his footwear would allow. Now it was almost twice that.
Granted, he'd run at least a hundred yards, but still. Progress. He tried to ignore the stitch creeping up his right side and focus on the positives.
With a grim calculus, Kell debated whether he should toss another ammonia grenade. He was tired, hungry, and while years of effort built tremendous stamina and toughness, he was wearing nearly every piece of survival equipment he owned. The effort of running with it all was already setting his muscles on fire.
Reluctantly, he pulled another sphere from his pouch, waiting to drop it until the perfect moment. He had no idea when that might be, of course, since this area of highway was virtually unknown to him. He could be heading for the nearest stretch of road, or for all he knew dashing madly toward the deepest part of the forest. The only thing he knew for certain was that the trees were growing thicker, and the land had begun to slope downhill, ever steeper.
Someone blessed with less attention to detail might have missed the sharp twist in the foliage ahead, but Kell caught it in time—barely. The sound of running water caressed him between the basso drumbeats of his falling boots. Another backward glance showed a distance of about fifteen feet between his pursuers and their meal. Enough time to spare a second to decide a course of action. But only a second.
He hit the edge of the embankment. In a flash, he observed and weighed the data before him. It wasn't a river, but as creeks went you could fairly count on steering a large boat down its waters. The bank he stood on was an overhang, the tumbling creek nearly twenty feet below. It was wide and appeared deep. And as far as he knew, zombies couldn't swim.
Kell threw the waxed glass ball over his shoulder as he bent at the knees and launched himself out into the air.
The choice had been a terrible one, no matter how he looked at it. Jump in the creek or climb a tree and hope the New Breed hadn't learned that skill. Swimming he was reasonably sure they couldn't do, or at least not better than he could.
In moments of crisis, people have been known to take in huge numbers of variables and act nearly instantly, a fantastic use of the human brain and its ability to function at speeds still baffling to people after five thousand years of study.
Unfortunately for Kell McDonald, that moment happened half a second after he jumped.
Every factor he should have worked out happened at once as he crashed through the water. His clothing, already heavy on land, soaked through immediately. The stream carried him away swiftly, faster than his quick glance suggested, and it was all he could do to stay afloat. His cloak tangled around him like a death shroud, the normally light and maneuverable plastic and cloth sandwich pressing against his limbs and invading every space as he flailed.
Inside armored gloves, his fingers went numb in seconds, making his fumbling effort to untie the cloak's knot impossible.
Cold pushed against him on all sides. The exertion of trying to stay above water did nothing to warm him, each second sending daggers of ice through his flesh. Logical Kell, that observant voice in the back of his head, recognized that his extremities were cooling at an alarming rate. The blood in his arms and legs was being cooled and sent back to his heart, causing his core temperature to drop. It would take a while to die this way, but not long to become so numb as to be functionally unable to help himself.
Without warning, something began choking him. Blind panic set in as the closures on his cloak bit into his neck with crushing force. Dimly, Kell realized the material must have caught on something, leaving him dangling from the end like a worm on a hook. The flow of the creek was stronger here, pulling him with inescapable force even as his own buoyancy bobbed him above and below the water's surface in even, deadly strokes.
One hand shot over his head to grip the fabric, and with an effort that made his muscles feel like they were tearing, he pulled himself up. It was only a few inches, but enough to take the tension from his neck.
The other hand went to his mouth, which he used to yank the heavy armored glove off. Spitting the glove into the creek, he jammed the free hand down to his belt.
His knife left its sheath silently, beneath the water.
With another herculean effort, Kell pulled himself up another few inches. The knife slid between his neck and the closures, a bright spot of pain blooming on the bottom of his jaw. Kell had to throw his head back, leaving only his nose and mouth above water, as he sawed at the cloak.
Come on, Come on!
His arm cramped as the effort of holding his body up became almost impossible. Though he couldn't see the neck of his cloak, he could feel the material parting, the friction of the blade heavy against his hand.
With a terrifying lack of control, Kell let go of the cloak. It wasn't intentional; his body simply lost the ability to keep working at that level. He pulled the knife away at the last second in an effort not to slash his own throat as the water forced his neck against the choking loop of material, though he hadn't managed to slice all the way through.
Death by strangulation or blood loss. Didn't seem like much of a choice, but at least this way he wouldn't effectively be stabbing himself in the neck.
His weight caught on the closure again, and the last strands of material parted under the strain.
“Yes!” he shouted.
Tired as he was—exhausted in the truest sense of the word, if we're being honest—Kell still found enough strength to hold himself up in the water. After a short time, the flow slowed again, the creek widening out. During the confusion of his struggle against his own clothing, he must have gone downhill a fair distance. The land around him, judging by the trees lining the creek, seemed flatter. The banks were shorter and no longer o
verhung the now-gentle flow.
Taking a deep breath, Kell grimaced as he attempted a clumsy swim. Helpful was the fact that as the creek widened, it became shallower. His feet touched bottom, giving him better forward motion.
It took three tries, but Kell finally managed to grab an exposed tree root dangling from the washed-out banks. That first shock of weight after snagging the weathered root nearly drowned him as he gasped in pain and inhaled a spray of water. The deep, grinding cough hurt enough to distract him from the agony in his arm. The cramps returned nearly the instant he put weight on it.
Carefully, he sheathed the knife and put both hands to the task. Kell was big and heavy even without gallons of runoff soaking his clothes. Pulling himself up would have been a challenge even when rested and well.
As it was, the short journey from the water up the roots of the tree was the hardest distance he had ever traveled.
Fingers dug into loamy dirt as his legs, awkwardly braced against the roots below him, strained to keep him steady. Kell managed to dig his hand into another root on the landward side of the tree, one deeply ensconced in the earth. Using it as an anchor, he pulled his belly onto dry land. With no dignity or shame, Kell writhed forward from there until his legs were safe on land as well.
After a few minutes of lying still, desperate to regain his breath and achieve a measure of control over his pains, Kell worked himself to his knees. Dull realization hit him; this was the wrong side of the creek. Probably not too large a problem, but still. Another annoyance he'd have to deal with if he wanted to locate his companions.
As he straightened, another violent fit of coughing wracked him, persistent and draining. After a few seconds he became worried. Then, when the coughing grew worse instead of easing off, he began to panic. His head grew light, and the world went red around the edges, all spangled with glowing spots as unconsciousness threatened to take over the helm.
It did, ten seconds later, but not before Kell caught sight of several figures along the opposite bank watching him intently. Their grayish skin with its leathery texture caught rays of sunlight, as did their slightly rheumy eyes.
The last thought before he blacked out was a formless hope that he was right, and that the New Breed couldn't swim.
Five
The world faded back to him in a slow black and white revelation.
Logical Kell wondered if head trauma was responsible, if he'd concussed himself while passing out. Then, as the rest of him woke and caught up with reality, he realized it was just the time of day. The sky was cloudy, the trees silhouettes against the dying light.
He must have been out for a long time; he'd left the convoy just after dawn, and it was now only a short time to dusk. Belatedly, he thought to check for injuries, but the lack of pain beyond his sore muscles told him no undead had wandered by. The New Breed were no longer waiting on the far bank for him. In the hours he'd been unconscious, new and more accessible prey had likely passed nearby.
“Crap,” he said.
It was far past the time the convoy would have allotted to wait for him. Half a day was the absolute longest their plans allowed for, a limit imposed by Kell himself over the objections of several members of the unit. If he could get back to the road, it was probable he could at least find the spot where his friends had waited for him. If he knew Laura and Kate, they'd have been absolutely convinced of his survival. They would have left him supplies. That was also part of the plan, but only between the three of them. They would risk losing precious weapons and food for each other.
Wearily for one as well-rested as he should have been, Kell rose. His muscles sang with aches, a less than smooth tenor jumping all over the scale in intensity and pitch.
Moving hurt, but staying still would be death. He was still wet, though a day of laying had dried him out considerably. He was cold—extremely so, which probably woke him—and judging by the stiff breeze dipping through the trees to flutter leaves all around, he would be getting colder soon. It was a wonder he hadn't died of exposure already. Maybe the day had been sunny enough to keep him warm.
Lucky, damn lucky.
He worked sore muscles, stretching and flexing. There was no song going through his head this time, only a wordless mantra for survival. Even in the first days of The Fall he hadn't faced this sort of trouble. Then, he had the resources of an entire city to draw on. He'd hoarded and gathered as needed. Oh, hunting and the beginnings of a food garden were all well and good, but without a bow or even his spear, chances were slim he could manage to catch or kill anything.
The stretching continued, less an attempt to make himself mobile than an evaluation of just how far he could push his limbs. There was a deep ache in his right side from his armpit to his hip, though none of the sharp pain that indicated broken ribs. His right arm hurt from fingers to shoulder, and flexing any part of it brought twinges of pain and muscle spasms. He'd overdone it to a frightening degree.
Alone in unfamiliar territory, without his primary weapons, and with a pouch and backpack full of goods soaked through. The little food he had with him was probably ruined, doubly so because he feared to put anything contaminated with creek water into his mouth. If Kell knew one thing, it was the dangers of microorganisms.
Painful as it was, stretching refreshed him somewhat. He sat, removing his pouch, bag, and weapons, and proceeded to check over his remaining gear.
It wasn't much to work with, at least not long-term. Two knives, both stout and sharp. Two old and often-repaired ice axes. A lot of paracord, his small medical kit, magnesium firestarter, and assorted items like hooks and fishing line. His standard emergency equipment.
The backpack held better news. Kate or Laura must have checked through it while he was alone in the RV's bedroom. His journal was there, safe inside a plastic bag with a few pens and loose paper. Not so much an attempt to protect it from moisture as it was a convenient way to keep the items together. There was a change of clothes—well, the clothes he wore under his heavy gear—and two packages tightly wrapped in plastic. They were labeled, though the marker was washed out from his dunk. One was a brick of granola, the other a bag of chia seeds. Two of his favorite staples.
Again, lucky. It wasn't enough food to keep him going for long, but at least the ladies had picked things they had to wrap in plastic to keep fresh. It had to have been Laura, come to that; she was obsessive when it came to storing food. Kate was like Kell in that area, which meant Laura was constantly cleaning up after them.
Fierce homesickness swept through him, sudden and gripping. It wasn't for a place. No geography meant anything to him, not anymore. It was a longing for them. For the women who had become his family. Here in his hands was food they had given him, prepared with their own hands. Not just a means to survive a little longer, but also a little greeting card. A message of support and love, even if unintentional.
Munching on granola, Kell stripped the other glove off. It was strange to wear just one. He tucked it into his belt and started walking.
His sense of direction was good enough to know which way was east without the sun or other signs to point it out. The trip down the creek hadn't been anything close to ten miles. Even with the run beforehand, he couldn't have gone more than half a mile from where he left the convoy.
He kept one hand free as he walked and ate, ready to snatch one of the axes dangling from his belt at a moment's notice, but all was quiet. Not the unnatural silence often accompanying the movements of nearby zombies as woodland creatures made themselves as invisible and inaudible as they could. This was the more peaceful version, the sound of nature going along as it had long before mankind ever put fire to wood. It was oddly soothing once he accepted the situation for what it was.
There was a path along the creek, overgrown from lack of use but still usable. With no better option, Kell followed it south as he looked for a way across that didn't involve another swim.
It didn't take long to start seeing signs that the path wasn't as a
bandoned as he thought. There might not be enough regular traffic to keep it from growing vegetation along with the rest of the woods, but someone was using it. Something, he corrected himself. It could be people. Could be dead people. Or it could just be animals traveling a convenient trail from the creek where they drank to the deeper forest.
If that was the case, they were big animals. A few hundred feet down the way, broken pieces of branch showed at five feet off the ground. No effort at all to hide the trail. Most of the signs were small things, easy to miss if you weren't used to looking for them. As he approached the peak of a small hill, however, Kell noted a larger branch, about two of his fingers thick, hanging from a tree.
It was still halfway attached. He moved in and took a closer look. It was broken, but there were obvious cuts as well. The exposed wood was still fairly fresh. Recent damage.
The familiar ball of ice formed in his stomach, and Kell found himself experiencing another sharp pang of longing for Laura and Kate. For safety, comfort. For being able to nap in the passenger seat.
Shaking his head, he moved on with careful steps. Wishing would do him no good. If there were people nearby, he would need to avoid them if possible. Taking the risk of exposing his presence was dangerous enough, but in his current state it would be suicidal if the locals weren't friendly.
Forcing himself calm, he walked on in search of a safe place to camp for the night.
Full dark fell by the time Kell found a good spot to hunker down. He was tired but not sleepy, thanks to being unconscious for most of the day, so he doggedly worked by the thin glow of the clouds.
Not far from the creek he found a nice shelf of rock. It looked to have been formed by the water in times past, sluicing away over countless years to leave the stone weathered and smooth. The overhang wasn't large, just enough to tuck himself completely under it. Half an hour of gathering fallen pine needles and fallen rock netted him bedding and stones for a small fire.
The Fall (Book 2): Dead Will Rise Page 5