The Surviving Son (Valkyrie Book 2)

by Hawk, J. K.

  “Was Emerson and Arnold brothers?” Steph and I busted out together in laughter. Of all the questions he could have asked, it was the most trivial that guided his curiosity.

  “No Abel,” I muttered in an attempt to smother the humor. “Let’s go swimming, it’s time we cooled off.”

  Without further discussion, without any other questions from Abel, we hiked back down into the valley and towards Lower Pond. Although the lack of time was always on my mind, to rush the boy into a decision would prove futile. He had to make the choice on his own, he had to be ready to leave. But, as we dove into the pond, and the cool mountain water washed away the stench from our skin, his acceptance of us was the sign I needed. He would make his decision soon, and before long we would be marching westward, cutting our own trail and giving way to the revolution of man.

  Consecrate the Cauldron Bog

  By late afternoon we left the cool waters of Lower Pond and hiked back towards Abel’s cabin. My recommendation of taking the road was thrown aside to Abel’s short-cut, which he insisted that we follow. How short it was compared to the road, I can’t be sure, however it was sure to be an interesting trip. We tracked a moose trail which zig-zagged throughout the forest, over steep hills and through rocky brooks. But, it was a swamp that truly slowed our journey, and eventually bringing it to a halt.

  “Nice short -cut.” Steph muttered sarcastically.

  “I don’t remember this.” Abel muttered in frustration. “Do you mean that weare lost?” Iasked, but was answered with

  a simple sough of annoyance.

  “If we cross this we will find the trail again.” He said as he

  stepped into the bog and sloshed his way through it.

  Aside from the smell of decaying vegetation, it was a place of

  wonderment and beauty. Pitch black water surrounded by moss

  covered rocks, logs and trees. Wisps of beard lichen dangled from

  the branches just below the dense emerald canopy which appeared

  to glow beneath a blazing sun. As breathtaking as it was, the area

  possessed an eerie qualm about it, and an abundance of bitter

  silence. I could see the agitation in Steph’s eyes as we followed the boy through the muck, but just like many times before, we laid our

  trust in him.

  We had covered almost half of the area, our legs caked in a paste

  of peat and mud, when the bog eventually came alive. Not with the

  sounds of birds, or the chittering of woodland rodents, but with

  gasps and faint moans. However, there was nothing around us, we

  were alone, and yet the unearthly bellows rose even louder, and soon

  Abel became agitated as well. Fiercely he pried a dried branch from

  the marsh and poked randomly about, through mounds of moss and

  walls of vines until the scenic landscape uprooted and lurched

  towards us.

  The Irish poet Seamus Heaney would have marveled at the sight

  as well as cowered before it. His poem, The Tollund Man, was a

  dark and inspiring tale of an ancient man, mummified within the

  depths of a peat-bog only to be pulled from its dark depths thousands

  of years later. There have been many tales such as this, Bog Bodies

  or Bog People, and throughout most of Europe these preserved

  remains have been discovered and theorized about. But none of

  them could live up to the grisly exhibit before us, no, all around us. Throughout the swamp figures rose and pried themselves from

  the stitches of nature. Encased in moss and entwined with vines, the

  bodies of the damned were scantly recognizable. Yet, our intrusion

  to their marshy necropolis did not go unnoticed as they left their

  endless stance of slothfulness for the painful yearning of gluttony.

  There were a dozen or more, but I did not take the time to count, as Abel lashed out and thrusted his branch through the first skull, I

  pulled my gun and blasted another.

  Steph too joined in on our impromptu execution, slashing

  haphazardly through the air with her knife a few times before

  striking through the face of a stocky Necrotic that approached from

  behind. The right side of its lichen cloaked guise slowly peeled away

  from the wound before falling to the sludge below with a heavy plop.

  The two faced demon, one of morass and the other of ebonized skull,

  lurched forward and grasped her shoulders with clenched vinewrapped fingers. But, she did not falter, with the swiftness of a bird,

  she yanked its head down and plunged her blade through the base of

  its skull.

  Another demon heaved up from the shallow depths, caked in a

  ashen slime of algae and rot, grasping at my jeans with such force

  that its fingertips peeled away from the bone. I wish I could say that

  I held my ground, blasted away its diseased brain, and continued

  with the next assailant. But that would be a lie, and there were

  witnesses that could attest to that fact. Instead, I panicked,

  screaming like a school-girl and toppling over into the blackened

  sludge.

  My gun slipped from my grip as I sloshed through the sunbrewed peat in attempt to distance myself from the emerging

  carcass. Desperately I search for it, my hands obscured by the pitch

  liquid as I dug through the muck below it. I could feel the fiend

  crawling up my legs, inches closer to more tender and exposed flesh, but I continued to seek out my weapon as I struggled to kick the

  Necrotic away.

  Then, as if guided from beyond, my arms sunk deep underneath

  a log and gripped tightly upon the hand-cannon. In a swift an

  instinctual motion of self-preservation I twisted back around and

  pulled the trigger. Steph already stood above me, yanking the rotten

  mass away, and the round exploded through its head as it passed too

  close to her own. She stumbled back in shock as I flopped about

  within the thick silt to reach her, and upon pulling her into my arms

  I searched for a wound, trembling that I had killed this poor young

  woman. But she was fine, startled and dumbfounded, but all intact

  and without a single scratch.

  The assault continued for a few more minutes, as each of us

  dashed towards the next sluggish fiend and laid it to rest. Before

  long we had fought our way through the verdant horde and stood in

  place, exhausted, sweaty, and still trembling with fear. With

  reprieve, I grabbed hold of Steph again, pulling her into a tight

  embrace and kissing her forehead to comfort her shocked nerves.

  She did not return the embrace, and instead lay limp from

  exhaustion, allowing me to affectionately support her weight. “HOLY SHIT!” Abel’s adolescent voice rung out from behind

  us.

  My eyes grew wide as I looked over my shoulder and carelessly

  released my hold upon Steph as she dropped to her knees in renewed

  revulsion. Stomping towards us was a behemoth of flora and death, the colossal Necrotic stood a towering seven feet, if not more. Back in the days of the living he would have been feared, a burly lumberjack perchance, with the girth of a fierce grisly. Abel

  immediately raise his hands and shouted at the lumbering beast. “NO! GO BACK!”

  But it ignored his commands, pushing the boy to the ground like

  a weak sapling and charging through the muddy slosh with the rage

  of a wounded bull. I did not hesitate to open-fire, but also did not

  take the time to aim as three or four rounds plowed through its chest,

  none of which slowed its approach.
Its mouth pried open, tearing

  through a moss stitched gag and revealing two sets of ravenous

  teeth, as it rushed forth and knocked away dead trees that blocked

  its path. With little time to react, I calmed my heavy breaths, took

  aim, and pulled the trigger. Its skull exploded with a mass of bone,

  brain and swamp before the titans knees buckled and his hulking

  mass plunged into marshy decay.

  Like the impact of a meteor, the three of us were doused with a

  mixture of stagnant water and viscous compost. Once again we were

  covered in filth, and a long walk still waited ahead of us. But now

  we would need to rely on the sun for direction, the surprise skirmish

  muddled the area and obscured our path. Yet this seemed to concern

  Abel none as he broke the stunned silence with his high-pitched

  chortling.

  “That’s a big fucker.” He gleefully cursed.

  “ABEL!”

  Steph scolded as I chuckled to myself with amusement, but was

  soon met with her glare of distaste. Avoiding criticism I laid my

  head low and pushed on through the swamp, relying on what light

  penetrated the canopy to guide me as the other two followed close

  behind. We didn’t say anything else about the encounter, Abel had

  said it all, and we hurried along to reach the cabin before dark while

  anticipating a much needed bath within the cold waters of Nash

  Brook.

  A Friend of a Friend

  If the apocalypse has taught me anything it is that I do not know a damn thing. Sure, I am book smart, and I have the knowhow to analyze and interpret the complex genomes of any pathogen. But when it comes to the simple behavior of a manipulated mind, I am at a loss. Valkyries true nature is swift expansion and grisly conquest, and yet the Simpleton shows us a curious and confused demeanor. He has the same pilot as all the others, but oddly pursues conflicting priorities. I once theorized that rather than quell the individual, in some brains, the virus merely formats the hard-drive. In essence, the Simpleton is of the right mind, but like a newborn child, its neural pathways are empty and without direction.

  Elmer, for instance, was a wandering Simpleton that Adam had encountered on his trek to Fort Rockland. Not driven by rage or hunger, instead he was guided by inquisitiveness and knowledge, no matter how basic or trivial it was. That journal entry, for which I have read over and over, concluded with a simple question, ‘What will become of him?’ Indeed, it was a query that would assumingly never be answered.

  Today I wandered off into the dense forest which reigns over the mountain stones, alone, taking time to clear my head. I followed Nash Brook up the mountain, past the swimming hole, and higher than I have ever climbed before. The stream intersected two old logging roads at various point of the climb up, their rough-timber bridges had rotted and washed away long ago, leaving a blunt ravine in the middle of an overgrown thruway. Further up and far from those remnants of industry the brook narrowed and slowly faded, until its flow disappeared somewhere beneath rocky earth.

  Roaming so far from the cabin would be met with harsh criticism from Steph as well as Abel. ‘Stupid Man,’ he will surely call me, but I feel safe enough, being sure to pack my gun as well as one of the boy’s make-shift spears. Foolhardy as it was, it was a hike that I will not soon forget, and one that would ultimately bring me closer to Adam and his own unimaginable experiences.

  It must have an hour or two when I broke through the forest and waltzed out into a large clearing that stretch for several acres. Blueberry and Raspberries bushes overlaid a rocky mountainside, and upon its discovery my stomach began to rumble. The berries were just beginning to ripen, and I immediately scoured the masses for the plumpest of the few, tossing them one by one into my mouth. Although overly tart, not yet sweetened by the suns caress, I gorged with gluttonous greed.

  Slowly I moved further into the parcel, clambering over boulders and dodging the sting of raspberry thorns, all for a rare and overdue sweet treat. My mind was empty as I feasted, not even the occasional twitter or chirp, nor ghastly grunt would break my concentration. Grunt? My head snapped up, within feet from where I stood was the tall and lanky form of the dreaded Prowler, and just as fast as my stomach stopped its grumble and instantly twisted, I was on the ground. Hoping and praying that I had not been discovered.

  Its back was to me, and it stood almost motionless in the mountain breeze as the stench that arose from him wafted my way. Firmly I placed my arm over my nose and scanned the area, searching for his friends. It appeared we were alone, but I knew there had to be others, somewhere within the dense tree lines, watching me, waiting to strike. But time gradually passed, and with each second, there was endless silence.

  The Prowler eventually became antsy, shifting its feet as its head twisted and turned as if searching for me. At first I assumed that it caught my scent, but he never turned to face me, nor did he show any sign of fury. He was almost complacent, and when his arm brushed up against a raspberry cane, its thorn digging and tearing into his blackened flesh, he gazed upon it in a mindless curiosity.

  Slowly I pulled the pistol from my pack, ready to end its existence before it notice mine. But as I cocked the hammer back the cold hard steel echoed like a monstrous ratchet, its clicks seeming to echo over the mountainside. The Prowlers head snapped towards me as it leaned forward, gazing into my frightened eyes, and without pause I pulled the cannon up towards its head. But it showed no sign of concern, nor did it lunged at me in selfpreservation. Instead its attention turned back to the thorns as he tugged and yanked, tearing them through its own skin.

  My own curiosity took over as I removed my finger from the trigger, and watched, still holding the gun in place as a precaution. When the Prowler freed itself from the stinging grasp it turned and slowly step towards me, cocking its head right to left as its arms hung lifelessly from its shoulders. Leaning back to distance myself, the ebony infection stopped abruptly before me, slowly kneeling down. Calmly it reached out, the tip of its finger pressing gently upon the end of the barrel then slowly along its side.

  It showed no interest in myself, but of only the gun, gazing into the gleam of its chromed steel like it were car keys to a baby. Elmer, was my first thought, but never before had we seen a case like this. A Simpleton who had evolved into a Prowler, he should be hunting, lethal and tactile. Not docile. But the chances of this actually being the lost soul of Adam’s first undead friend were slim to none. Yet I take comfort in that assumption - Elmer, a friend of a friend.

  As he studied my weapon, I took advantage of being so close and studied his features in detail. Although the majority of his clothing had long rotted or been torn away, there were still remnants, encased within its putrid flesh like the faded outline of a fossil. Elmer’s face, scaly and cracked, his eyes sunken and dark, and his jaw protruding outward with ashen teeth of an unsightly under bite. A foolish looking oaf, gentle and oblivious.

  “Gun.” I said, enunciating slowly to provoke a response. Elmer cocked his head again, looking up at me, then back to the weapon, his fingers never leaving its smooth surface. I repeated the word again, putting emphasis on the G, and much louder this time. Elmer’s hand retracted slightly, then placed back upon the barrel. His breath permeating my nostrils, but I held back my disgust, my own curiosity reveling at his own.

  “bah.” The subtle sound escape its lips like a ghost. “GUN.” I said again.

  “BAH!” He barked.

  “GUH-N.”

  With an annoyed snort he grabbed hold of the barrel tightly,

  never trying to pull it from my hands, but in attempt to understand. For a moment I felt like the Miracle Worker, introducing a deaf and blind child to a whole new world. But my enthusiasm was misguided, for the Simpleton cannot learn, but only observe and possibly wonder. As it was proved when his attention t
urn towards the caw of a crow soaring overhead.

  “BAH!” He exclaimed, before rising back to his feet and sluggishly stumbling away.

  I followed him close, watching his every move and a variety of mannerisms. My only regret is not bringing along my notepad, or even having access to a video camera. For a moment I considered using my belt to secure him to a tree, then returning to the cabin for my instruments, but such actions could prove foolishly dangerous. So much could be learned with such a specimen, and I can only speculate to the secrets which he holds within. A part of me even wonders who he was back before The Fall; a lawyer, a doctor, or quite possibly a criminal. His personality, unlike most of the Infected, invokes many theories that will never be proven.

  After several clumsy shuffles, Elmer once again became fixated, this time upon one of Mother Nature’s most beautiful creations. A Butterfly– Predominately black, much like that of Elmer’s rancid flesh with contrasting white spots alongthe outer rim of its wings and silky blue smudges towards the center of either appendage. The Spicebush Swallowtail, in my youth I was quite the entomologist, before such infatuations lead to my enthusiasms towards the bugs of the microscopic world.

  The bewildered monster watched with curiosity as the weightless creature danced around him like a seductive fairy, and I couldn’t help but stare in amazement. There was something strangely parallel between them, something that nobody else would’ve have perceived. Scientifically the two of them were alike, each sharing an alien and morbid metamorphosis, except one became the epitome of beauty, and the other of death.

  I couldn’t help but wonder what was going through Elmer’s mind as he stared at this angel before him. Quite possibly, nothing at all, and what I was observing was mere echoes of what we would call curiosity. The mannerisms were active, but nothing was recording. On the other hand, did he possess some primitive ability to analyze and interpret? Could he theorize and question? Was he conjuring an archaic and basic belief system? Was this floating spectacle before him God?