by Al K. Line
Recognizing a familiar vehicle, I opened the door, bundled the body into the back seat, then slammed it and hopped in the passenger side.
"Hey, Gavin, can you take me to zombie HQ?"
"Wotcha, Spark. How's it going, mate? Long time no see." Gavin Cooley pressed a few buttons, glanced quickly in his rearview, then pulled out into traffic, going from zero to speed limit in less time than it took to get my seatbelt on.
"I've had better mornings, but you know, can't complain. You? How's business?"
"Oh, so, so. Keeps me off the streets though, that's the main thing. Who's in back?"
"Not sure, but he's a zombie and he's not supposed to be here."
"Blimey, Rikka won't be happy about that. I wouldn't want to be Paul when he finds out about this."
"Neither would I." Paul wasn't exactly the leader of the Cardiff Ward of zombies, but he was in charge, although the problem really lay with Rikka, as he is in charge of this Ward and the country. Anything that happens in your Ward is your responsibility, so he would be less than impressed with Paul.
"How's it going, anyway? Staying out of trouble?"
Gavin had the cheek to look affronted, but we both knew he was kidding. He can't stay away from trouble, he finds it no matter how well it hides.
He is, after all, a dwarf that's allergic to gold. Poor guy. Of all the things to get a bad reaction to and he's allergic to the only thing that could possibly make him have to stay away from his own kind.
Zombie Outing
It didn't take long to get to the zombie enclave, and as Gavin pulled up at the entrance—don't worry, there's a magic barrier to stop the zombies getting out. Most of them, anyway—I got a very bad feeling about things.
"Bit quiet innit?" said Gavin, doing something dodgy with the meter and trying not to look guilty.
"Too quiet."
"Want me to hang around? Deal with any trouble?"
"No, but thanks. I can handle it, and I'm sure Rikka will be here soon."
"Okay, suit yourself. Twenty seven pounds fifteen pence. Call it an even thirty."
"How about we call it a tenner and I don't rip off your stubby arms?"
"Whoa! There's no need to be discriminatory, Spark. That kind of talk went out with the dark ages."
"What? They are stubby."
"Not the point, is it? I don't go around calling you a lanky piece of—"
"Yeah, yeah, I get the idea. Here." I gave him more cash than he deserved and dragged the zombie out of the car as gently as I could. Gavin pulled away in a storm of gravel and was gone.
Checking the perimeter, all I could see was the faint shimmer of the forcefield so there was no way any undead should have got out. The lack of moaning and absence of activity told a different story—not good.
Feeling bad for the poor guy, and if I'm honest for my jacket as well, I untied his hands and released him from his blindfold. He snapped at me but in a rather halfhearted and ineffectual way. His leg had stopped leaking, which was a bad sign, as it meant he would begin to rot quickly unless he got topped up.
I walked slowly toward the impressive building, an old luxury spa resort that had been converted to keep the zombies safe and the rest of us safer. Why don't we just kill them, you might ask? Well, they are people, and they are in there somewhere. Some are completely lucid, able to talk and act utterly normal, apart from trying to take the odd bite out of you, while others are more like this poor soul, the urges overwhelming, unable to think of anything but brains.
But it's their choice. They can decide to pass on if they wish, and if not then it's the safe-zones where they often live for centuries as bits drop off and they go slowly, or quickly, mad.
I know what I'd choose, but I haven't been in their shoes, so I certainly don't judge. We keep them safe, let them live their lives how they want to, whilst protecting humanity. Or we did. The fact there should have been hundreds of the undead staggering about in various degrees of decomposition was not a good sign at all.
The creature followed me up the steps awkwardly, the lure of my fresh flesh too much for it to resist. I led it into the dining room before locking the door as I made a quick exit. It was weird, the tables and chairs were neatly aligned, places set as if ready for a meal—Paul liked to try to keep them civilized, not that it ever worked.
Returning to the lobby, I admired the amazing tiled floor like I always did. It's a true work of art.
"Hello? Anyone home? I have brains." I listened, but the only sound was the hungry guest in the huge dining room. Apart from that it was just me, and the rain going for a strong late morning push to ensure that Cardiff remained as wet and dreary as ever.
Seriously spooked, but knowing I needed to find answers, I began exploring. I kind of wish I hadn't.
The zombie home is large, and I'd never been in more than a few rooms. It's an old place, once used by the rich to relax and unwind, purchased by the Dark Council, renovated, and now a home-cum-prison.
Some of the undead were nice people, amiable, as long as you kept your distance, while others were ancient, little left of their former selves, walking nightmares that would haunt your dreams if you thought about it too long. As I wandered from one large room to another, all empty, I couldn't help thinking about the poor creatures.
It's amazing what people will do to cling to their existence. These men and women were dead, no doubt about it, but their spirits remained. Almost like physical ghosts, that's the closest to an explanation that makes sense you can get. But as they age the virus tightens its grip, and day by day, year by year, sometimes decade after decade, they slip away, automatons with nothing but a primal urge to consume human flesh, definite bias toward brains.
Basically, they are hardcore. You can't get more gangster than that, so you have to give them credit for their persistence. Only problem being, they weren't where they were supposed to be, and that was bad.
After confirming the ground floor was clear of zombies, I headed upstairs, up a sweeping spiral staircase that I have to admit made me a little jealous. The banister was dark and warm, in stark contrast to the freezing building with the stench of death now ingrained into the fabric of the walls.
Along once plush, now rather tatty and grubby red carpet, I checked the rooms. All had locks on the outside, as was part of the rules, all empty. In some there was furniture, in others nothing but mattresses on the floor and not a lot else, all depending on the individual that slept within.
I moved from nice hallways to a more sinister part of the building. I'd never been there so didn't know what to expect, but what I hadn't anticipated was what amounted to a cell block.
A whole corridor had nothing but steel doors, bare walls and floor, with a guard station behind reinforced glass. I guessed it was for the more troublesome or too-far-gone guests. I punched a button beside the door and it slid open. I called, but again it was silent apart from the squeal as the door slid across runners in need of oiling.
Something was amiss, I could tell right away. The cell doors were all ajar, which was a bad idea if the occupiers were that dangerous.
Reaching the first cell, I peered inside. Laid out on a cot were the remains of a human being. The stench of rot and preserving fluids made me gag and I bent double, half my breakfast coming up as I coughed and spluttered.
Little in the way of intact flesh remained. Necrosis was rampant, the effects of being dead for so long surging now the magic was gone and the preservatives had leaked out.
The open chest cavity reminded me of a tree hit by lightning, shards of bone like splinters dull yellow in the weak light. But it was the head that was the worst, and what made me disgorge my breakfast. It was kind of squeezed in, all tight in a ball, somehow still attached to the body, barely.
It was as if somebody had squeezed it like a piece of fruit until all moisture was gone, or a sheet of paper scrunched up, lolling to one side all black and terribly bruised. The zombie was definitely dead, and for real this time.
Once the worst of the nausea passed, I moved on. The next occupant was almost identical—insides torn out, dragged away like they were rotten sausages. Wet and shiny from the fluids that soaked and stained the concrete floor. This time the head was off, the force that had crushed the skull too much to allow it to stay connected to the spinal column.
I stood in the entrance for some time, lost in thought, unable to stand the stench yet knowing there was more. I'm not sure how long I remained there, dazed and sick, but I eventually checked another cell. It was the same, and on and on it went, every occupant dead, head crushed, insides hanging from open body cavities like a nightmare in a butchers. Some of them had their guts strewn on the floor, every one of them had their heads mushed to a pulp.
It was like a huge hand had gripped their heads and simply crushed them, but no hand could do that, it would have to be the size of a troll. Yeah, I was a little slow.
Look, I'd been out of the game for a while, and the horror was overwhelming, clouding my mind. I wasn't used to thinking this way any longer, and trolls may be as tough as, well, trolls, but I had never heard of them squeezing heads like this—damaging those they had no argument with. They preserve that particular honor for those that insult them or they get paid to by their boss.
This was something else. This had the feel of mercy killings, like they'd put the zombies out of their misery. A final rest. Personally, it felt like mercy. They would never have known what was happening, being little but empty vessels that craved brains. Still, it was gross, and I was having a hard time keeping down the rest of my breakfast.
There was nothing I could do, and I was sweating badly even though I knew it was cold. I had the shakes and the smell was threatening to make me black out. Time to go.
Back downstairs, I sucked on fresh air gusting through the open front door. It felt good, oh-so-good. I know what you're thinking—you're supposed to be a dark magic enforcer, aren't you used to this stuff? Well, the answer is no, I am not used to seeing loads of zombies with their insides dangling and their heads all squished. Are you? Haha, thought not.
Where the hell was Rikka? I fished out my phone, deciding to call him. I had expected to hear from him, or for him to turn up. Maybe he had found Paul and there was an explanation for all this, although I couldn't think what on earth it could be.
The crunch of gravel interrupted me as a car approached.
Rikka, I assumed.
You know when you need a pee right when it's least convenient? I had one of those moments. Everyone does it, right? But I always find that in books nobody ever needs to go to the loo, or eats or sleeps. Don't know how those guys do it. Well, I'm telling you this tale and I'm telling you I needed a pee. So I ducked back inside and used the bathroom.
Thankfully, it was devoid of squashy heads or goopy bits. Just me, sighing and then washing my hands like a good boy, even though men only wash their hands in bathrooms if there are other guys in there too—it's an unwritten rule.
Bladder doing the happy-no-more-wee dance, I went back to the entrance, expecting, or hoping, to see Rikka, Dancer, Paul the zombie leader, and a load of gnashing undead following close behind.
I was wrong.
As I stepped out into the rain, fizzing as usual, the vehicle that pulled up was like one of those crazy monster trucks you see on TV that drive over other vehicles, making them look like toys.
The wheels were huge, but the cab was larger. It was like an army vehicle on steroids, painted camouflage green and belching out smoke from the rear like an old wizard who'd gone more than an hour without his pipe.
A very, and I mean very, large troll jumped out and took off its shades. Like we wear sunglasses in Wales! Come to think of it, how the hell did it find any large enough? The same for the accountant. They must have been inventing and making all kinds of things since they suddenly got brains.
He wore a leather bomber jacket, à la Tom Cruise from Top Gun, and I swear he turned his head to give me a better angle of his chiseled jawline. Yes, actually chiseled.
"I'm going to crush your head," came a voice like gravel in a blender.
I was glad I'd had a pee.
Please Don't
The troll stormed across the circular drive like a collection of boulders piled up until it represented the last thing you wanted marching toward you threatening to scrunch your head until brains squeezed out your ears and your eyeballs popped. Um, not that you'd want anything to do that.
I adjusted my position to one that allowed me to run, meaning I ran the hell out of there as fast as I could.
Phone still in hand, I hit speed dial, and when Rikka replied with a grunt I screamed, "Where the hell are you?"
"Where are you?"
"Me? I'm at zombie HQ and they are all either dead or missing."
"What are you blathering about, Spark? Of course they're dead, they're zombies." Sometimes Rikka really annoys me.
"No, I mean, dead, dead. As in a troll squished their heads. That kind of dead. And there's one here now, wearing an aviator jacket and sunglasses, and he wants to do the same to me. Have you spoken to Paul?"
"No, we were just coming up to see how you were doing. Can't get hold of him."
"Hurry. These trolls are making me wish I'd stayed home, Rikka."
"Hang on, be there soon."
I hung up. And did some more running.
Fighting trolls is dangerous, mainly because you absolutely, under no circumstances, can kill them. They are immortal, feel no real pain, can be broken down only to put themselves back together again, and you can't even suck the magic out of them as they are too pure a creature.
As I dashed around the side of the building, all of this and more went through my mind, but then I stopped in my tracks. A flash of inspiration came and I turned, unhappy to note that the troll was now walking rather leisurely but had still almost caught up with me. Damn their long, lumpy legs.
"What seems to be the problem?" I asked, hoping it didn't realize I was drawing magic to myself as fast as I possibly could. I tried not to look at my arms as the tattoos bulged and screamed at my skin, eager to channel magic out at the strange looking troll in a burst of destruction that would leave it as uneven spare rock for repairs to the building made of the same material.
I knew it was pointless. I felt the blackness of my eyes, the stabs of silver sparks that pinged away from my head like spiky horizontal rain.
"This is our place now. You and your kind don't deserve it. I saw what you let happen here. What the zombies did to each other. We dealt with them, put the poor creatures down like they deserved. Call yourself a Hidden? Pah! You are nothing but the dirt beneath my feet."
"No fair. I had nothing to do with how they look after themselves, but this is what they wanted. They chose to exist, and this is how it has to be. We can't have them loose, eating other humans. It would be the end of the world."
"Not for us it wouldn't."
A terrible feeling gripped me and it wasn't the sickness that comes with summoning magic. That was still minimal and it felt odd to not be dreading the comedown. Whatever had turned the trolls smart hadn't made them all nice and inclined to care about humanity. In fact, it seemed the opposite was true in some cases.
"What have you done? What did you do to the rest of the zombies?"
"Don't worry," he said with a wave of a massive hand that almost slammed into me—I would have been dead in an instant. "We haven't let them loose on you all, not that I would have a problem with that." The troll poked around in an oversized pocket and seemed to lose focus for a minute.
"I found one in the city center, and that isn't exactly a help. They need to be contained."
"Like animals," grunted the troll. "No like being animal. Must have respect."
Something was very wrong here. The dude had gone from articulate, if somewhat disagreeable troll, back to being how they usually were in a heartbeat. I decided now would be the best time to get information. "Why are you doing this, t
hen? Where are the zombies?"
"Me not know about that. But trolls need base. Large house. This nice." He, and I say he as he was dressed like Tom Cruise but much, much larger, pulled his hand from his pocket and held up what reminded me of a gray lump of ice. It looked cold, but something swirled inside it, semi-transparent and brimming with magic so strong it made me feel sick like I always used to. It sparkled, and dust fell off it like it wanted to get free. I noticed the bulge in the pocket—there were more. The troll opened its mouth wide, revealing blunt, gray teeth. It swallowed the ball.
It's eyes rolled back in its head like two soccer balls and I swear I heard them rattle. Its whole body shuddered like we'd been hit by an earthquake and then with a shake of the head it focused on me, eyes burning bright, strong intelligence there without doubt.
"Are you still here? Out of my way, human. I have things to do."
"Hey, I'm not going anywhere until you tell me where the rest of the zombies are."
The troll stormed toward me, its goal clear—destroy me. Instinct took over, and I let magic settle into every cell of my body and swim through my connected ink in a flash, until it built and had to find release.
I stepped back and shielded my eyes with my left arm as I thrust out my right and hit it with a blast of magic that came away from me in thick lumps like tennis balls from one of those training machines. I have to say, it hurt a little.
The balls of magic slammed into the troll's body in a storm of black hail I knew would have little effect, and I was right. He batted at the balls, alive and burning as cold as a Yeti's toes, but they were a distraction at least. It allowed me to take a few steps back and gather myself for the next attack.
Knowing my life would be over if it got close enough to get even a finger on me, I clapped my hands together and sent a spike of black magic as thin as possible right at a spot where I knew it would do damage. At the pocketful of smart pills, or whatever they were. The material melted in an instant, the balls clattering to the floor then rolling along the ground like oversized magic marbles.