by Lance, C. M.
Sig moved his head around slowly, eyes unfocused. He whispered, "No, they're over there and there"; motioning to the rear and far side of the barn.
"OK, let's get to the house. Shotguns can disable them. Do you have the katana I gave your Dad?"
Sig nodded. "It's in the den."
"Perfect." Grampa replied calmly.
Sig sprinted to the house. On the front porch, he skidded to a stop, turning to see Grampa limping behind. A zombie appeared from around the barn on the right, lumbering to intercept Grampa, moving almost as fast.
Grampa looked behind and shouted at Sig, "Get the samurai sword and shotguns. Don't wait. Give Meredith a shotgun and shells. Then come back."
Sig ran into the house shouting for his mother. He found her downstairs in the basement by the gun safe. She handed him the sword, and swung the safe door open. "I heard him shouting. Take what you need. I have my shotgun. I'll guard the back from the kitchen." She sounded calm, as befitted the County Woman's Skeet Champion for the four out of the last five years, but he saw anxiety in her eyes.
Sig nodded, gave her a strained smile, seized shotguns, and stuffed boxes of shells into his shooting vest and more into a backpack. They only had four boxes of buckshot to split between the two 12-gauge shotguns. The rest was heavy turkey shot. Hopefully it would be enough.
He heard Grampa's curses and thumps from outside. Taking the stairs two at a time, he toted the shotguns, sword, and backpack. He dropped the backpack and sword at the front door while he shoved shells into the two guns. Retrieving the sword and backpack, he stepped out on the porch.
At the top of the stairs, Grampa held one zombie away with a pitchfork and chopped at another with the machete. A third, missing an arm and a leg on one side, twitched where it lay at the base of the steps. Several more shuffled toward them across the yard. Others came around the corner of the barn.
Sig remembered Grampa's words as he raised his shotgun to blast the head of the zombie on the end of the pitchfork. At this distance, its head disintegrated as the blast knocked the zombie backwards. Chunks of head and brain sprinkled the snow. The zombie slid off the pitchfork, and fell backwards. It thrashed like an insect on its back trying to right itself.
With a last machete chop, Grampa severed the other zombie's head. The head thumped as it bounced down the stairs. Grampa held out his hand. "Give me a shotgun."
Grampa's businesslike demeanor helped calm Sig's racing heart.
Sig handed it over. "It's loaded." He extended a box to Grampa. "Box of buckshot." Grampa stabbed the machete into the porch floor so it stood erect—ready at hand. Then he placed the box of shells on the porch rail before raising the gun to shoot the headless zombie in the leg. It toppled over. It can grab."
Sig pointed his shotgun toward a zombie coming up the steps and blasted it in the head. It stumbled to a stop. He blasted again at its knee and it toppled over. Before he could push more shells into the shotgun, another zombie lurched across the porch at him from the right. He unsheathed the sword. With a single sweep, its keen edge sliced through the zombie's neck. Its rotten state made the task easier. The zombie stumbled around aimlessly.
Sig reloaded. His next shot knocked that zombie over the porch rail. When Grampa bent to grab shells from the box at his feet to reload, another zombie attacked. Sig shoved his shotgun toward Grampa. "Here." Grampa dropped his shotgun, took Sig's, and shot the zombie.
Sig picked up the shotgun Grampa dropped and reloaded.
They stood at the top of the stairs blasting advancing zombies. The yard around the porch looked like a body part yard sale. Many still twitched, some even trying to rise.
Only two continued to advance toward them. Sig and Grampa rested and waited for them to climb onto the porch.
Sig heard a shotgun blast and looked to Grampa. Grampa looked at him. Neither had fired. Two blasts in rapid succession sounded from the back of the house.
"Mom!"
Sig turned and ran through the house to the kitchen. Meredith stood in the back doorway and blasted again. She glanced back with desperation as Sig burst into the room. "I keep shooting and they keep coming."
"Shoot them in the kneecaps. Then they can't walk."
She shoved two shotgun shells into her gun and fired again, aiming lower. "That works. Thanks." She gave him a strained smile over her shoulder.
"Watch out if you get close to them." He said pointing at a zombie twitching on the ground. "They can still grab you." Over her shoulder, he saw a zombie on the ground, one headless zombie wandering aimlessly, and a third with gaping holes through its body trying to mount the steps. He put his hand on her shoulder. "Let me through. I'll use this sword. Save ammunition."
He sliced through a leg on each of the mobile corpses. They both collapsed, but the one with the head still arm-crawled up the steps. Sig severed its head and kicked it to roll erratically across the backyard.
Looking back up at his mother, he realized he didn't hear any firing from the other side of the house. Carrying his sword and shotgun, he sprinted around the house. When he rounded the corner to the front yard, he felt relief when he saw Grampa at the head of the stairs, kicking body parts off the porch.
Sig bent with hands on his knees and took several deep breaths. Grampa looked over and said, "OK, now we chop them up some more to make sure they can't move. Do you have axes?" Sig started to walk until Grampa said "Go, go" and then he broke into a jog toward the woodshed behind the house. He returned with two axes.
Grampa took a double bladed ax and walked through the litter of bodies, chopping dismembered corpses into smaller pieces. Sig reluctantly followed his lead with the other ax.
Meredith walked out of the house, "That's all in back. I don't see any others."
Sig looked up just as a zombie followed her out of the house. "Mom! Behind you!"
She ducked and ran forward down the steps. Sig raised the axe and hurled it at the zombie. The blade thumped into its chest and knocked it backward onto the porch. The tip of the blade sticking out of its back pinned it to the porch floor.
Grampa hollered, "Good throw."
Sig looked over at him. "I practiced throwing with Dad. That's the first time I've done it since…" He picked up the sword from where it leaned against the porch and walked over to chop the zombie on the porch into manageable pieces before it could free itself from the axe pinning it.
Meredith had a disgusted look as she stood watch with her reloaded shotgun while Sig and Grampa continued dismembering barely mobile corpses.
Sig looked around and said, "Are we done? There are even more here than I thought worked across the road. Over a dozen. Maybe fifteen or twenty." It was weird, bodies chopped up, but no blood on the snow.
"Count the feet and divide by two to figure out how many," Grampa said.
Sig looked over at him, shook his head, and collapsed to sit on the porch steps.
Grampa walked over, plopped down next to Sig, and said, "What's wrong? We just saved our bacon and wiped out more than a dozen zombies. You should be happy, not despondent."
"I always wanted to have magic. Now this." He waved at the body parts littering the yard. "This is terrible. It makes me feel like I've fallen into a septic tank. I'm glad I don't have magic." Sig looked at him. "But you have magic don't you? You made Bjørn speak and you made the zombies visible."
Grampa sighed. "There's magic and there's magic." He nodded toward the zombies. "That's black magic, evil magic… Necromancy. No, you don't want that kind of magic. We fight that kind of magic."
He gave Sig a measured look. "Yes, I have magic. I planned to let you know in a less dramatic fashion when I talked to you about your magic."
Sig said. "I told you I don't have any magic."
Grampa clapped him on the shoulder. "Let's check the inside of house before we clean up this mess out here. We can talk about it later." He put a finger to his lips. "Don't mention my magic to your mother yet."
Sig drove the pickup truc
k with the hydraulic dump bed into the yard while Grampa piled body parts together with the pitchfork. Mom watched from the porch as Sig then pulled the front–loader out of the equipment barn. He scooped up the piles of zombie parts, and poured them into the dump bed of the pickup.
While he did that, Grampa spoke with Meredith. She went inside and Grampa hobbled over with a pitchfork and flipped the few leftover parts into the dump bed. "Is Mom going to call the police?" Sig asked.
"I clean up my own messes. Besides, chopped up zombies would ruin the police routine in this nice little town. I don't want to put them through that."
"What are we going to do with all these body parts? Drop them in the dumpster out back?"
"Isn't this the land of 10,000 lakes?"
"Yeah, and all the lakes are frozen. They started thawing but this freeze hardened them again. Were you planning on dumping them on the ice and take bets on when they fall through, like we do with old beater cars?"
Grampa got into the passenger seat of the dumper truck. "Take me to a good size lake that's still well frozen; one with a public launch."
Sig got in and started the truck. "What happens when someone finds them?" He received a snore in reply. Grampa's chin rested on his chest. How can he sleep?
Twenty minutes later Sig eased the truck down a snow covered launch ramp at the biggest lake in the area. After Sig shook him awake, Grampa took the samurai sword and walked ahead of the truck onto the frozen lake. Sig followed for one hundred and fifty yards across the glistening white before Grampa signaled him to stop and turn the truck around. No lake cabins were visible through the leafless trees.
After he turned the truck, Sig got out to watch. With the sword, Grampa etched a ten–foot circle in the ice. Then he scratched strange figures inside the circle. When finished with the ice drawings, he leaned on the sword like a cane and gestured with the other hand.
Sig heard him muttering foreign sounding words while gesturing.
Before Grampa finished the incantation, haze, like steam, rose from the etched area. The fog intensified.
Sig watched intently, trying to see into the thickening clouds. After a few moments, it thinned and drifted away in the light wind. As it dissipated, Sig saw dark water where the circle had been. Grampa groaned and dropped to his knees, clutching his chest.
Sig rushed to his side. Grampa shook his head and pushed him away. "Dump the zombies in before it freezes. I'll be OK. Look, it's already starting to freeze. Hurry."
Sig backed the truck close, lifted the dump bed, and got out of the cab. Parts slid, splashed, and disappeared into the dark water. Those that missed the hole, he flipped into the water with a pitchfork. Through the pitchfork, he felt some parts still quivering. Crackling noises replaced splashes for the last few pieces when they broke through the rime forming in the opening.
Grampa was snoring when Sig got back into the truck. His skin looked grayer and he slept all the way home. At least snoring indicated life.
When they got back to the farm, Grampa yawned and stretched before getting out. He looked around the yard. "That's the good thing about zombies; no blood to clean up."
Sig grimaced. "That was disgusting. I need a shower."
"Good idea. Go up and shower and I'll talk to Meredith. I'm sure she has questions, probably more than I can answer. I'll join you upstairs when you're done."
†††
Sig finished dressing before Grampa knocked on his door. "Can I come in?"
"Sure, come on."
Grampa scanned the room. Sig's latest karate gi hung from a hook on the closet door; a black belt draped over the hanger. Grampa started Sig on martial arts at five years old, arranging to pay for all his karate lessons. Sig outgrew quite a few gi in the twelve years since he started. He excelled and was the youngest to attain each belt rank.
On a later visit, he started Sig on kendo classes. Sig's shinai practice swords rested in a rack above his dresser along with his fencing swords.
Inside his bedroom door hung a poster with the top fifty Chuck Norris facts (such as "Chuck Norris counted to infinity—twice" and "Chuck Norris likes his ice like he likes his skulls … crushed.") An Einstein poster, the one with his tongue out, hung on the wall.
Sig started to take the chair at the desk and motioned for Grampa to take the bed, but Grampa shooed him out of the chair and sat down. "I've been driving all night. If I lay down, I'll fall asleep."
Sig sat on the bed, elbows on knees, his forehead in his hands, dark brown hair hanging forward over his face. He massaged his temples then looked up. "Wow, I don't know where to start. Zombies attacking … your magic … you say I have magic."
"I'm not surprised you're feeling overwhelmed. I talked to your Mom about the zombies. She said they've been around since the farm across the road sold. She noticed that their numbers had been growing, but had no idea that is was that many."
"She noticed too?" Sig asked and nodded.
"She doesn't like them. They were in dreams she had before your father died and more recently she had a nightmare about them falling apart on your farm."
"That is the first time she ever said anything about dreams before Dad died. She dreamed about them falling apart? Wow."
"She didn't want you to worry and didn't know you sensed their presence. You never said anything to her either", he said drily. "It's very rare in our family for women to have magic, but given her dreams, it's possible that your mother might. It's good you both have sensitivities for the zombies. That's my biggest concern now."
"Do you think they attacked today because you arrived or is it a lucky coincidence that they picked today since their numbers have grown?"
"I wondered about that. I could leave, but if I'm not the reason and they attacked because their time was right, I'd leave you two unprotected."
"I'm glad you were here. You knew what to do. Do you think they'll attack again?"
"Not right away, at least not zombies. From what I know about black magic, it takes a long time to raise that many, particularly zombies that appeared to operate independently like these did. We'll have to watch for other kinds of attacks too."
"Should we leave?"
"It's not in my nature to run from trouble. I'm a Battle Wizard. As you saw, I do wield magic. That's why I could make Bjørn speak to you."
Sig's eyes grew wider as his great–grandfather talked.
Grampa waved his hand dismissively "Don't worry, Bjørn won't keep on speaking. He wouldn't be much of a conversationalist if he did." He chuckled.
Sig's mind felt numb as questions piled up. "What's a Battle Wizard?" He finally asked.
"We fight black magic. In fact, we lead the war against black magic."
"I've never heard of a Battle Wizard. Are there more of them?"
Grampa smiled wryly. "A few more, but not enough. I have greater magic in my battle form, in addition to being impervious to most magic—or so I thought."
Grampa's face took on a sad expression. "I got careless. I knew magic had grown more powerful, after the world changed, but I was arrogant. Magic couldn't hurt me…"
"Why didn't you use magic on the zombies?"
Grampa's face took on a pained look. "That's my big problem right now. Whenever I use magic, it makes me sicker. I figured between the two of us, we could fight them off without resorting to magic. Plan B was to try to use whatever power I have left."
"Then I'm glad the two of us … I guess there were actually three of us … could do it without magic. What's wrong with you?"
"Never believe your own press clippings. There's always someone out there more powerful. Do I look old to you?"
"You look older than you used to. You look like Grandfather Edward now."
"I've been old for a long time, Sigurd. I turned 94 before Edward was born. However, that's not much; my great–grandfather lived to be 340."
Sig did the math. "When you said 193 years old this morning, you weren't kidding, or are you kidding now?"
"I'm deadly serious. I ran across someone with tricks I never encountered before. The earth's changes have done more than just increase natural magic. It has also made access to dark magic easier; portals between dimensions are more open."
"Grampa, that sounds bad."
"Good. Fear of black magic is healthy. Dark Mages face a terrible ending if they draw on it; but of course, they think they'll live forever. Dark magic is addictive. Many begin by dabbling in it; confident they'll be able to stop. They begin with the idea of seeking just a little more power, but a little never seems to be enough and it sucks them in and then warps them."
"You're scaring me."
Grampa Thor nodded his head. "Good, fear of Black magic is smart. I didn't have enough fear. I began to feel I was invincible. That's why I don't have much time left. I went up against a Dark Sorcerer who used a trick I'd never seen. He invoked a demon, made it invisible, and cast it into me. I should have shielded against it and didn't. Now the demon feeds off my magic. Every time I use magic, he sucks more out of me, even the normally insignificant part I use to stay young. My reservoir empties faster than I can replenish it. You're looking at the result."
The thought of losing Grampa so soon after Dad and Grandfather Edward, rocked Sig to his core. "There must be something that can be done!"
"I've found nothing where the cure isn't worse than the disease. Google doesn't have much on magic yet; maybe I'll find something before I die of early old age." His face twisted into a smile.
"My biggest concern now is for you, Sigurd. I must pass the sword to you as my grandfather did to me so you can take up the fight. I hope I'll have time to train you as he did for me when he passed it along. Of course, after he trained me, he lived for another one hundred years and managed his investments. It's the Battle Wizard retirement plan."
"Grampa I don't want the sword if it means you're going to die. Isn't there something I can do?"
Grampa nodded his head firmly. "Yes. Pay attention. Do everything I tell you. Make the transition as easy as possible."
"But… I don't have any magic."
"I've always sensed magic in you; deep and powerful. Edward didn't have it, but you do."