The Sword of Saint Michael

by D C P Fox

  “Okay, but let’s move up the road past these dead bodies . . . although I want to say a prayer over one.”

  “I’m not sure that’s wise. That guy told me they are survivalists on a scouting mission. The ones who got away may bring some more soon. The quicker we get out of here, the better.”

  Up the road, they stopped to eat more energy bars. By then, all the bullets protruded out of her body. Each one stung as the skin surrounding each bullet broke open. Five minutes later—approximately a half hour after being shot—the last bullet fell out, and the surrounding skin closed up.

  When Jocelyn and Marty arrived at the parking lot of the strip mall in front of Beaver Park Market, a tall man with straight brown hair down to his shoulders greeted them. He had the beginnings of a beard and was wearing the same sweats as Marty was, but blue instead of orange—Jocelyn guessed Marty had drawn the short straw when choosing colors. He had a shotgun pointed toward Jocelyn; Marty gestured for the man to lower his shotgun, and he complied but scowled and kept it at the ready as they approached him.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” the man asked evenly.

  “That was the first zombie we’d seen in a while. He was alone, and Alexander and I wanted to investigate.”

  “Dammit sheriff, you put us all at risk.”

  Marty shrugged. “Given the odds we face, we have to take chances if we are to survive.”

  The man scowled and raised his voice. “You stupid idiot. Gathering information is less important than establishing a base of operations.”

  Marty grunted, raising his voice to the scowling man’s level. “Oh bullshit, Vin, we’ve been sitting around playing with our dicks for a week now. It’s about time we did things my way.”

  “Your way? We saved your life, you ungrateful asshole.”

  “Bullshit again, Vin. Janice said I was fine but for a slight concussion and some bruises. I’d have recovered, though I admit you made it a lot easier to survive.”

  “You’re damned right.”

  “We’re not getting anywhere with this. If I’m right, we need to act fast.”

  Vin scowled again. Jocelyn wasn’t sure she liked Vin much, especially hearing of his conspiracy theories about the president. As if he had inside knowledge of what went down with this pathogen. “This had better be good.” Vin’s tone had softened a little. It occurred to Jocelyn that the two of them should just conclude their dick contest and get on with business, but both appeared to have simmered down a little.

  “Vin, this is Jocelyn. Jocelyn, this is Vin.”

  Vin looked her up and down, as if sizing her up. “You have a shotgun. Do you know how to use it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, though I don’t see that sword as being very useful.”

  Just then a man came up to them. He had straight, parted brown hair and a cute face, his glasses very becoming. He was wearing green sweats, with the same silly white stripe down his right leg as the other two had. Her immediate attraction to him was palpable, but she suppressed it and kept it hidden, as nothing good could come from it, at least in this moment.

  “Marty! I’m glad to see you back. I see you brought back someone.” The man eyed Jocelyn suspiciously.

  Jocelyn decided to defuse things by being friendly, even though she was apprehensive about them, too. She needed to make friends. She had to get to that pharmacy. “You must be Alexander.” He raised his eyebrows in mild surprise as she extended her hand. “I’m Jocelyn.”

  The man shook her hand with his right hand, his left wrist wrapped in a bandage. “Alexander Williams. So, Marty has told you all about me. I’m at a disadvantage, then.” His powder-blue eyes flicked over to his left as he pointed to her sword hilt above her right shoulder. “That’s a sword.”

  Jocelyn laughed at the obvious. “Would you like to hold it?”

  He nodded, and she reached behind, drew the sword, and gave it to him. He held it in his right hand.

  “It’s heavy,” he said, struggling to hold it upright.

  She laughed again. “Try using two hands.”

  He nodded and held onto the hilt with both hands, waving it around in the air like he knew how to use it, but he didn’t. He seemed to be doing pretty well with the wrapped wrist. “Have you attacked any zombies with it?”

  “I’ve killed two. I cut off their heads with one swing. I think I can do the same with other zombies, though I discovered stabbing them doesn’t slow them down much.” She hoped her tone appeared matter-of-factly and not boastful.

  He looked wide-eyed at her, absentmindedly moving the sword in her direction.

  “Careful with that thing. It’s sharp.” Jocelyn cautioned. He brought the sword back and looked sheepish. “Sorry . . . It has to be sharp if the sword can cut off a head in one blow.” She needed to establish her worth. “It’s not the sword so much as me. I’ve done enough training that I can chop their heads in the one blow.” The strength of a draugar helps as well. “It would probably take three or so swings for someone without the training.”

  “Wow,” he said as he gave her back the sword. She sheathed it behind her back while he just stared at her for a few seconds. “You seemed to have trained for this.”

  Was her grandfather aware this was coming? That he would be dead, and I would fight the draugar? Still, he couldn’t have known about my becoming a half-draugar . . . could he?

  “You’d be useful,” Alexander continued. “We would love for you to join our little group.” He gestured over to Vin. “Vin here is an expert with guns and Kempo—in fact he’s an instructor.”

  Vin rolled his eyes. “I can make my own introductions, Alexander.”

  Alexander shrugged. “Sorry, Vin.”

  Marty interjected. “I hate to break this up, but we need to talk as a group. Now. And it’s better we do that inside rather than outside.”

  “You’d better have something good,” Vin said.

  “Oh?” Marty raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got something better to do with your time?”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Day Eight

  Jocelyn didn’t know what to make of Vin or Alexander. Could she trust them with her life? And did she need them to get to Colorado Springs? If she encountered the draugar one at a time, she could handle them on her own. But what if she encountered more? What if there was a whole horde? Of course, Vin and Marty and Alexander would not be enough against a horde, and she would have to avoid draugar if she were to survive. How would she do that?

  First things first. She needed to get those meds. But as they made their way toward the employees-only area of the market, as they passed the pharmacy on the right, Jocelyn became anxious. She desperately needed those meds now, but she didn’t want to draw attention to her plight so no one would find out about her illness. Normal people with normal medical conditions wouldn’t head straight for the pharmacy. Besides, if she looked for them now, would someone discover which medication she took? Would Alexander be smart enough to recognize it? Would Vin?

  Jocelyn realized that her best course of action would be to join this group, even if temporarily, until she could secretly go into the pharmacy, probably in the wee hours of the night. Although Marty might be able to run interference while she found her meds now, she still thought the risk of being detected as having a severe mental illness was too high to chance it now.

  She glanced at her watch; it was already after six, and darkness was less than two hours away. She hoped there would be a time when no was awake, like if she were on watch.

  The emergency lights were on, which meant generator power, and she guessed that meant they had no heat, which explained the pile of burnt wood and ashes under the store’s overhang out front.

  When they arrived at the break room, a middle-aged woman, an older Asian man – she guessed Chinese – and a very young girl greeted her. The girl slept on a couch, her head resting on the lap of the middle-aged woman, who was reading a paperback novel.

  The Chinese
man played air-piano with his eyes closed while seated at a long table.

  Vin coughed, and the woman looked up from her book. The Chinese man stopped and looked at her too.

  The woman gasped and said, “Oh, my gosh, another survivor. And an armed one.” She turned to Vin. “See, I told you we should canvass the town.” Then she frowned. “Does anyone know this woman?”

  Vin scowled. “Janice, Jize, this is Jocelyn. Marty brought her from his ridiculous travels; he says he has something important to say.”

  Jize rose from his seat with the grace of royalty, approached her, and took her hand in both of his, one palm covering the top, the other, the bottom. “Pleased to meet you. I am Jize Chen. Please call me Jize, if you will.” He bowed.

  The name Jize Chen rang a bell with her, even though she couldn’t quite place it. Oh, wait, air-playing a piano . . .

  “Are you Jize Chen, the concert pianist?” Jocelyn asked.

  “So you know of me,” he confirmed as he brought his head back up and looked her in the eyes. He gave a somewhat forced smile. “I would love to give you a private concert, but I’m afraid I’m fresh out of pianos. They don’t fit in my pockets very well.”

  She gave a slight chuckle. “I wonder if they have one at the ski resort.”

  He took his hands away. “They just might, but in all seriousness, we did not want to leave the market.”

  Jocelyn thought again about the survivalists. “So there are still zombies there?” she asked.

  Jize shrugged. “Who knows? Do you want to take the chance just so I can play the piano?” But he looked sad when he asked, as if pleading the answer would be, “Yes.”

  Jocelyn merely smiled at him without answering the question. “It is nice to meet you. I wish the circumstances were better.”

  He nodded.

  Jocelyn turned her head to Janice. “And pleased to meet you, Janice.” She walked over to shake Janice’s hand, and Janice put down her book and took Jocelyn’s hand gently.

  “How have your travels been?” Janice asked. “Are you hurt? You look okay.”

  “I’m fine, at least physically.”

  Marty grunted. “Now that that’s out of the way, we need to tend to some business. Jocelyn, I think a demonstration is in order.”

  A demonstration? Does he mean of her healing? “You mean my—“

  “Don’t say it. It’s better if everyone sees it for themselves.”

  Marty had just boxed her in. He hadn’t given her warning he would spring this on this rag-tag team. But now they expected something, some kind of demonstration. But if her goal was Colorado Springs, and to be studied, then to get this team to help her, it would be better if they understood the truth about her healing power.

  She retrieved the napkin from a dispenser by the coffee maker, sat back down, took her knife, and slit her forearm like she had done with Marty before. This time she squeezed it and drops of blood fell onto the table.

  “What the hell?” Vin exclaimed. Marty put his palm up as if to hold off his speech.

  Jocelyn waited a few seconds for the pain to subside, and then wiped the blood away from her arm, revealing the wound had vanished.

  “Oh, my god!” Vin exclaimed. “She’s one of them!”

  Alexander said next, as if it was worse, “Oh, my god, she’s a carrier!”

  “How could she be a carrier?” Vin asked. “Doesn’t a carrier have symptoms?” Alexander knew Vin, with his engineering degree, was no idiot, though he wasn’t as smart as Alexander.

  Alexander nodded. “Usually, but not always.” Alexander guessed what was going on and became sick to his stomach.

  “You’re not squeamish at the sight of blood, are you Alexander?” Vin asked.

  “It’s not that. It’s just . . .” No one talked. They all waited for Alexander to finish. They knew a superior intellect when they saw one. “Jocelyn, I believe you’ve been infected. Do you remember when that could have happened?”

  She nodded and told her story about being alone in the cabin, encountering George, his bite on the neck, and her subsequent four days’ fevered sleep.

  “Well, that makes sense. You fought it off; it appears you are immune.” He turned to Vin. “Now I’m pretty sure it’s a virus, but I believe something else is going on here.” Alexander paused.

  “What makes you say that, Poindexter? Out with it.” Vin asked.

  Alexander decided that now was not the time for theatrics. He picked up a plastic cup off his table and took a drink of his cold brew. He always made good cold brew.

  “One could engineer a virus to repair damage like a cut on the arm, but the same could be accomplished with bacteria or nanobots. She clearly fought off one part of this zombie virus, but not the other part, so I believe there are two pathogens here.”

  “You mean there may be little robots inside me?” Jocelyn asked. She was a smart one, too, though, again, not as smart as him.

  Alexander shrugged; he liked pretending this was all matter-of-fact for him, but in truth he was astounded. “Not necessarily . . . It could be a genetically engineered bacteria, or a similarly engineered second virus. This zombie pathogen is a very complicated, engineered illness.”

  He paused again. “Someone developed this agent, this illness. I’ve never heard of two viruses naturally working together, though I suppose it is possible, and what you see here in Jocelyn is the agent that changes your brain into a zombie, gives you the sores, makes you eat brains to spread the infection. . . you don’t crave brains, do you?”

  Jocelyn stuck out her tongue and made a disgusted face. Alexander hoped she wasn’t play-acting.

  “You have no sores?” Alexander asked.

  “No.”

  “Okay,” Alexander said. “That part you fought off, but the other part that gives you healing, you have not.”

  “So, you’re the microbiologist,” Vin said. “What do you believe this second pathogen is?”

  “I really can’t say, but when I see that the entire world succumbed at about the same time . . . look, I saw that infected woman. She clearly entered a new phase of the virus when she turned into a zombie, but the entire world, or at least the States, seemed to be overrun with zombies in the space of hours. And the odds that everyone originally infected would turn into a zombie at the same time are astronomical. Only direct programming could control something like this.”

  Alexander glanced over at the clock above and to the right of the employee bulletin board. He watched the seconds hand march onwards.

  “Wait,” Vin said. “Are you saying this was an attack coordinated to occur at the same time everywhere? How is that even possible?”

  “I don’t know. You’re the software engineer. Can you think of how?”

  “It would require clocks and a way to synchronize them. And all of that would have to be tiny and in silicon. Those little nanobots would need a lot of silicon. I don’t know where they’d get it from.”

  “What about carbon? Human tissue is full of carbon, and carbon is quite similar to silicon, just above it in the periodic table of the elements.”

  Vin gasped. “Carbon nanotubes could potentially be used in place of silicon. They discovered that years ago.”

  “It’s possible, then? Nanobots could use human tissue to make tiny computer components?”

  Vin nodded. “It’s possible the government has this kind of secret technology. In principle, it’s not even that difficult. This bitch of a president must be using this to create chaos to rule the world.”

  Not that again. “My guess,” Alexander said, “is someone intended to make humans better, but they probably never got the pathogen right, and it got out somehow. Though the issue of timing makes me think the distribution was deliberate.” He turned to Jocelyn. “We have to be very careful not to mix our blood, or any . . . bodily fluids. Now it’s my guess . . . and just a guess, I mind you, but an educated one, that saliva to saliva is fine, but saliva to blood, blood to blood . . . Who knows about s
exual fluids? . . . But we’ve been killing zombies. Has anyone gotten zombie blood in their mouth?” He looked around the table.

  Vin spoke up. “I did. On the first day.”

  Alexander glanced below the clock to the calendar on the wall. It was open to September, and he had placed an X through the 1st to make sure they counted the days. So, it was the second, and the day the apocalypse hit was August 25. Eight days ago. Has it been that long?

  “Then you’re probably fine; that’s probably long enough, but we must keep an eye on you. Luckily, the zombies seem to lose the ability or inclination to use weapons. They kill with their speed and strength . . . But since Vin didn’t get sick, we know ingested blood does not transmit the infection, at least not one hundred percent . . . Let’s hope it doesn’t, because if blood ingested orally spreads the infection then we’re fucked unless we’re immune.”

  Janice spoke up. Jocelyn had noticed her mouth opening and closing a few times, trying to get a word in edgewise. “So if we swallow zombie blood, or Jocelyn’s blood—”

  “Then we’re probably fine,” Alexander finished for her. “I believe it’s prudent to assume it is one hundred percent contagious, and transmitted similar to HIV.” Oh, except . . . “Although with HIV, a bite from an infected person won’t transmit the infection, and in this case it does.” What would cause that? Oh, right. Alexander pretended to pause for dramatic effect, wanting to project an air of confidence he didn’t possess. “But that’s what the sores are for. There must be sores in their mouths as well, and the bite then transmits the pathogen from the sores to the blood in the victim.”

  “I have a question,” Jize said.

  “Yes, Jize?” Alexander said.

  “Wouldn’t these nanobots, if they are nanobots, wouldn’t they be transmitted by swallowing? Once they’re in you, they’re in you, right? Why wouldn’t they . . . I don’t know . . . get to work, so to say?”