The Sword of Saint Michael

by D C P Fox

  About a mile into her walk, that familiar tingling, neither pleasant nor unpleasant, came back. In the distance, she spied some draugar coming toward her. It looked like what had once been families: an elderly woman; a man and woman in their forties; a woman in her twenties carrying an infant; a young girl about Emily’s age; and a man in his twenties. The man was missing half his head, including a significant part of his skull, with no open wounds except for the sores. His skin had healed, but he had no nose. Downwind of them, she smelled the pustules at least a hundred feet away.

  She guessed the tingling signaled draugar nearby—a fortunate power. They walked nonchalantly, their plan either to meet up with her or to pass her by. If the former, she wondered what attracted her to them. Was it by sight? Perhaps, but how could they tell she was a draugar merely by looking at her? No one else could. Whatever it was, since George infected her, a draugar only attacked her when she posed a threat to it.

  The thought of draugar turning on each other once they had no more humans to eat occurred to her. Going forward, could she count on the draugar leaving her alone? Hopefully, being animalistic, they would not be subtle about it. They would either run ferociously to attack, or just amble on over—as these draugar were doing now—to join her.

  She wished Alexander was with her. He would have an idea about how she attracted the draugar.

  Oh, Alexander. She regretted grabbing his crotch in the pharmacy. No matter how passionately he kissed her back, she should have realized that he was a jumble of emotions. Then again, so was she. So were all the survivors.

  How did her boyfriend fare? Did she care? Oh, yes, she cared. She may have stopped caring about him as a lover, but not as a person. She cared about all of humanity, which was what had sustained her all this time. Because surviving in this world would probably not be worth it.

  And what about her mother? A part of her wanted to search the ends of the Earth for her, but her mission took priority. She was anguished that she probably would never see her again. Her father, on the other hand . . . could pound sand.

  Jocelyn didn’t fight the reeking draugar families hanging around. She didn’t want to kill them, and in fact, the mother carrying the baby deeply saddened and troubled her. It didn’t change her opinion that they were animalistic (animals carry their children all the time), but it gave her pause. Just like she’d observed in cats and dogs, they were capable of emotional love. And that reminded her that, deep down inside, they were human and could be cured.

  There were seven, and with her, that made eight. She had never seen draugar in a gathering this size, though Marty told her of the horde that traveled north. These seven must have been some kind of pack before they found her.

  She had her sword out, ready to strike at any moment. But the draugar paid no heed to that—they just stood around her. What did they wait for?

  She resumed her walk through Beaver Park and they followed her.

  She wondered again what drew them to her. Not vision or sound, because she didn’t look like a draugar, and not smell, because she had been downwind of them. Not touch or taste. After the five senses, what remained?

  A sixth sense. But maybe conventional. How do humans find each other without the five senses? Electronic communications, wired or not.

  That must be it.

  What did Alexander say—that they could be infected with nanobots? The nanobots could build anything, even copies of themselves, and they could build computer components from a body’s own carbon using carbon nanotubes. What if they built wireless transmitters and receivers? If so, they must have a range, and therefore she could travel outside of range. And she had never seen a draugar drive a vehicle or outrun a motor vehicle traveling at normal speeds.

  So, if she wanted to “ditch” the draugar, she could get into a motor vehicle and lock the doors before the draugar could get inside. Also, if she could distract them somehow, she could run away. But the only way she knew to distract them was for them to attack humans.

  During the walk, the draugar started to play with small rocks, throwing them and retrieving them, or throwing them at each other. They smiled. Whether the smile betrayed any emotion was unknown to Jocelyn. Again she realized this did not differ much from what animals did. In fact, they acted more like dogs or wolves.

  Jocelyn hoped to get more food at the supermarket, but as she and the draugar approached it, four large men guarding the entrance dashed that hope. They were all in army fatigues with assault rifles at the ready. But she didn’t think they were military because they all had large beards. In fact, they looked like they were survivalists—maybe even from the same group as the ones that attacked her two days ago, though none of them resembled the two she allowed to escape. She saw one of them point in her direction, and they all started to move toward her and the draugar. The draugar grunted, growled, snarled and hissed and charged the survivalists.

  Jocelyn watched in horror as the men crouched down on their knees and shot at the draugar in rapid succession. She dropped to the ground, and the draugar, riddled with bullets, halted their progress. They shielded Jocelyn from the gunfire, and she was unaware whether that was intentional. Shotgun blasts. She lifted her head up to see the men towering over the now-prone draugar with shotguns—she hadn’t spotted the shotguns before. Jocelyn put her face down on the asphalt as the men shot the draugar repeatedly in the head, spraying tissue and blood onto the back of Jocelyn’s body.

  “Lady, are you hurt? It’s all over. You can get up now.”

  The man who spoke took his hand in hers. “Let me help you up, lady.”

  Jocelyn didn’t like the way he called her “lady.” She also didn’t like his breath. She stood up, scowling. He punched her in the mouth, turning her head to the side, and then a shot rang out and her shin exploded in pain. She stumbled to the ground and realized he’d shot her.

  “Careful, Daryl,” said the man that had helped her up. “Don’t hurt the merchandise.” He snickered.

  She tried to stand up but the pain was unbearable, and she collapsed.

  All the men laughed.

  “You ain’t goin’ anywhere, toots.” She started to crawl backwards. They laughed again, this time even louder.

  Once she traveled about fifty feet away, the pain in her shin subsided, but it was still covered in blood. She knew it would take a little time for the bullet to surface. Without putting too much weight on that leg, she stood up and, hopping on her “good” leg, she unsheathed her sword and displayed it drooping downwards, pretending it was heavy.

  “Look Joe,” Daryl said. “We got ourselves a real fighter. Lady, why don’t you put away the toy and let me fuck you proper. In fact,” he looked back and forth at his compatriots, “Hell, you might even enjoy it.” He unzipped his pants and took out a mostly erect penis.

  She made her move, putting her sword combat training to good use. She rushed up and kicked him on the balls and penis with the flat bottom of her foot. He cried out and stumbled backwards, landing on his ass.

  Her biggest threat was the man just to the right of Daryl as she faced them because his assault rifle was close to ready. She sidestepped to her right and ran that man through the heart with her sword. He became bug-eyed and groaned. Then with one motion she pulled her sword out, arced her sword to the left, and sliced Joe’s throat, cascading blood down onto his chest. He started to make gurgling sounds—she must have severed his vocal cords—and he clutched at his throat in a vain attempt to staunch the bleeding.

  Good.

  By now the man on the right had collapsed to the ground.

  She turned to the last man standing. He went for his shotgun when she thrust her sword into his stomach. She looked into his eyes, and he stared into hers. By now Joe had fallen to the ground and stopped his gurgling. She pulled out her sword out of the last man, stepped back and kicked him in the wound for good measure. He tumbled backwards. Then she turned back to Daryl, the one she’d kicked in the balls. He was still clutching th
em in pain, prone on the ground, looking up at her in horror.

  Good. The asshole should be afraid. I will match my two years of training against your weekend warrior bullshit.

  She kicked him in the chin. His head fell back on the asphalt unconscious.

  She stepped onto Joe’s body, turned, and chopped most of Daryl’s head off at the neck. Shots rang out from somewhere else, and she felt the familiar pain of a gunshot, this time in the thigh. She buckled and fell down on one knee on top of Joe’s body. While trying to regain her balance, someone shot her in the shoulder. She made herself flat on top of Joe and Daryl, protecting her head.

  Rapid-fire gunshots rang out all around her. She lay on two assault rifles, Joe’s and Daryl’s. A narrow space in between the two bodies would give her more cover, but she needed one of those rifles. She wriggled her way down into the crevasse and reached with her left arm to grab Joe’s rifle, but it caught on something. She pulled again, but it wouldn’t budge.

  Meanwhile, she noticed the shooting had stopped. She looked up in the market’s direction—a survivalist approached fast. It was a race to see if she could get that rifle in time. She realized it was strapped around Joe’s shoulder. Frantic, she felt for the strap and started the slow process of pulling it off his shoulder and around his arm.

  But she took too long. A gun fired and shot her in the back of the head. Jocelyn was dead. Again.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Day Ten

  After Marty, Alexander, and Nick spent the day cataloguing the medications they had—they made it from A to E—the guards brought them dinner once it got dark and told them to work one more hour before they would bring them back to their motel.

  They all sat down to eat their dinner—canned soup—in the employee break room. After a few minutes, Marty felt it was time to strike. He wanted to take Nick’s handgun, and he knew Nick had his guard down. Marty guessed that the skinheads were so confident in their firepower and superior numbers that one handgun would not get these two self-proclaimed pharmacists very far. And to steal one would be a death sentence from the Führer himself.

  Marty didn’t like his chances either, but they had to keep Janice from being raped.

  “I’ll use the restroom,” Marty announced as an excuse to get up from the table and walk over behind Nick. Instead of continuing on to the bathroom, Marty grabbed him from behind, his left arm wrapping around his neck, seeking to initiate a sleeper choke hold, his right hand going for Nick’s gun. While Marty got his hand on the gun, Nick got his hand on Marty’s and dug his fingernails in. Marty grunted in pain but held onto the handgun handle while waiting for the choke hold to take effect. Nick’s left elbow caught Marty in the jaw, and while it thrust Marty’s head back, Marty held onto the neck, despite Nick squirming his strong body. Nick was doing everything he could to throw Marty off; Marty was struggling to cut off the blood flow to the brain, and any deviation from that precise location would not work. Also, although Marty had the height advantage, Nick had the superior strength.

  After several seconds, Nick stopped struggling and went limp. Marty took the handgun and shoved Nick forward, on guard in case he was bluffing.

  But he wasn’t. He laid there on the floor in a heap. But he was already stirring.

  Marty struggled to catch his breath, stepped back, and steadied his hand.

  “Don’t shoot him!” Alexander exclaimed. “The guards out front will hear!”

  “Step back, Alexander,” Marty said with a sense of urgency. “Keep a good distance away from him. I don’t want to shoot, but I will if he gets any crazy ideas.”

  Alexander scampered back as ordered. Nick groaned.

  “Alexander, go out to the floor and see if you can find us some zip ties.”

  Alexander took a deep breath. “Sure thing,” he said and left the pharmacy.

  “Nick, you seem like a smart fellow. You’re not willing to risk getting shot over two slaves, are you?”

  “No.” Nick still had his head on the linoleum floor.

  “Lay face down and put your hands behind your back. Don’t worry, they’ll find you in the morning.”

  Alexander opened the back door swiftly, and Marty jumped through ready for an adversary, but found none. Nick had told them to expect no guards at the rear exit, so that was not surprising.

  The darkness of night had taken hold, but the moon provided some light.

  Rapid, distant gunfire sounded from the east.

  “Do you hear that?” Marty asked as he closed the door.

  “Yes. I wonder what’s going on?” The gunfire continued to sound.

  “Sounds like a sustained attack or defense. Maybe some zombies have come back.”

  “God help us if they have,” Alexander said.

  “Either way, let’s not stick around here.”

  “Agreed. To Janice and Emily’s motel, then.”

  They traveled west, then turned left to reach the main road, passing by the field on the east side of the school, where they hid behind a bank building, scouting, looking for any skinheads to avoid, but seeing none.

  They proceeded south toward Main Street, hugging the wall of the bank until the supermarket across the street came into view. Although hard to see in the shadows, Marty observed no skinheads in front of the supermarket and school. In fact, the entire area was deserted.

  Gunfire continued to sound in the distance to the east on Marty’s left as he faced the supermarket entrance. Close to the intersection, a fast-food restaurant loomed kitty-corner to them.

  Where had the guards all gone? Had someone called them off to fight? Marty remembered some of them had walkie-talkies.

  “On three, we run,” Marty said. “Head for the entrance of that restaurant, diagonally across the intersection. Ready?”

  Alexander nodded.

  “1 . . . 2 . . . 3.”

  They stopped at the restaurant and peered around the corner. No guards. No one. They crossed a parking lot and then a vacant lot on their way to the main highway. Passing a gas station on their right, the women’s motel came into view up and to the right, along the north side of the highway. Still no one.

  They didn’t know which room housed Janice and Emily, or even if they were there. They might not be back from the hospital yet. Well, with no guards, hopefully it would be easy enough to find out.

  They walked in the open office door. Ms. Coward, the woman who had greeted them earlier, gasped as Marty pointed his gun at her.

  “Where are Janice and Emily?” he asked.

  “Two oh three,” the woman said, a little shaky.

  “Where are the guards?”

  “They left to fight at the Dyer-Mart up the road.”

  Marty pointed with his non-gun hand to the east. “That way?”

  She nodded, swallowing hard.

  “Alexander, go collect them,” Marty said. “I’ll keep an eye on this one.”

  “Er . . . right.” Alexander left out the door.

  “Who are they fighting against?” Marty asked Coward.

  “I don’t know.”

  It could be anyone: the Hispanics; the African-Americans; the zombies; or some other organized group. Survivalists? The military? They were probably fifty miles from the Air Force Base.

  As if on cue, Marty heard helicopter noise to the east besides the continued gunfire, though he wasn’t sure. Then an explosion sounded from the same direction.

  Alexander returned with Janice and Emily.

  “We’re escaping. You on board, Janice?” Marty asked, gun still pointed at Coward behind the check-in desk.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  Marty winced. “I’m sorry, but no. They’ll torture and kill you for what we’ve already done. At least, they said they would.”

  Janice sighed. “You had to make a decision. I think it’s the right one. I’m already starting to feel ill. I think Colorado Springs is our only hope.”

  “Okay,” Marty said. “The gunfire changes the plan. W
e were going to steal a car and head there.”

  “But we’ll get caught in the crossfire,” Janice said.

  “But if we wait it out, we might lose our chance to escape,” Marty added.

  “Actually,” Alexander said, “I think our best hope is to wait it out.”

  “You heard the helicopter?” Marty asked.

  “Yes. If we hide out, we’re doomed if the firefight lasts throughout the night, because we’ll lose the cover of night, but I don’t think that’s likely.”

  “Agreed,” Marty said.

  “Agreed,” Janice said.

  “So that leaves escape once the firefight is over. As long as there’s a car available, we should have as much chance as the previous plan.”

  “Agreed,” Marty said again. “And then there’s the helicopter.”

  “The Air Force Base,” Janice said.

  “Yes,” Marty said. “If it’s the government, and they win, that is our best hope. But if not, or if they lose, or if we can’t find a car, we’ll still need food.”

  “Wait . . . what if it’s zombies that are attacking?” Janice asked.

  “In that case, our best hope is to get in a car and go,” Alexander said. “But given the helicopter, I believe our best shot is if it’s the military. But if they lose, we’ll need food, so our next step is the supermarket.”

  “Agreed,” Marty said.

  “Agreed,” Janice said.

  The gunfire was getting louder.

  Emily was frightened but proud she was not screaming. Her father would have been so proud of her.

  But he was dead. She had faced that fact a long time ago. Now all she had were Janice, Mr. Williams, and Sheriff Hill. All of whom were old. She wished for her mother and father.

  But she wouldn’t cry. Not now.