by Arthur Stone
He returned to the body and turned it over. The man was hardly older than twenty-five. His face was pale and red at once, drained of the blood that now drenched it. This young man had been naive enough to start a stupid fight without reason. Boiler had nothing for him to steal. Maybe he was looking to nab the spore sac Boiler had been about to cut from the jumper. But it could have been empty, anyway, and with a rifle like this he could have taken those things out by the dozen. Of course, the silencer wasn’t one hundred percent effective, but it greatly reduced the gun’s noise, especially at distance. With the ammo he was using, he could have hunted virtually without noise, without bringing a whole city of enemies down on his head.
He had kept a double-barreled sawed-off shotgun in a homemade holster, its grip wrapped with blue electrical tape. Boiler grabbed it and broke it open. When the raffler grabbed the assailant in its teeth, he hadn’t managed to draw the shotgun, just pull its trigger. The monster didn’t seem hurt by the shot—the kid had probably just fired at a random spot in panic. His last scream had not been that of a man in a state of composure.
Boiler thoroughly looted the man’s pockets and backpack. A canteen of lifejuice! He hurriedly unscrewed the cap and took one gulp, then another. He felt his stomach warm, then the grinding pain subsided, and finally the nausea began to calm.
At last. Life was improving.
He couldn’t avoid taking another swallow, but then he screwed the cap back on, not without regret. It was mediocre lifejuice, to be honest, too strong and with a burnt taste. Nimbler’s had been much better.
At a sound from the nearby bushes, Boiler readied his ax. That raffler wasn’t coming out. Either it was waiting for another human to show up, or it was waiting for this dangerous one to leave so it could consume the rest of the gunman in safety. There was no way to prevent the feast: burying the man was pointless, as he could be easily dug up, and hiding him in the house or shed was less useful still.
He owed this villain nothing, anyway. To the contrary, the fact his would-be killer was about to become nothing but an unmarked pile of bones should have gladdened him.
His joy at his newfound arsenal was stillborn, though, for fourteen rifle rounds and one single shotgun shell would not be enough for any serious fight. Even a single lower-level creature like that raffler was mortally dangerous. Their skulls underwent a serious transformation and began to grow plates, a strong defense against soft small-caliber bullets like this.
But the extra weight on his shoulder and around his waist boosted his confidence. Plus, there was the lifejuice. His various ailments were retreating once again, provoking a wild appetite to seize Boiler. A sizable can of meat in his backpack, filled with meat and fat chunks of dubious origin and too large to swallow more than one at a time, was soon empty. Even when the stuff was warmed up it was trash, and when cold, it was undeniably disgusting, but he polished it off, every last bite. Even though he wanted more, he forced himself to stop. He was standing right next to a fresh corpse, had been a hair’s breadth away from death multiple times in the past hour alone, and was standing in a lot adjacent to an angry wandering raffler. If he was looking to have a respectable meal, he should find a safer place for it. These beasts had such phenomenal hearing that he could hardly believe no more had shown up after the village gun show. The simple silencer had helped a good deal, but it did not entirely eliminate the risk. Any nearby ghouls had likely already shown themselves—and been slain—but nothing was stopping others running in from farther away.
It was time to get out of this adventure-loving village. But first, he had one more thing to do.
* * *
The zombie who had been crawling after him was still lying by the wall. Boiler gutted his spore sac. Empty. Nothing but that worthless black substance. It was a good thing that shooter had attacked him, or he’d still be without a way to get lifejuice, and his story would have most likely ended right here at this farm. He would never have made it through the night.
The rumbling sound from the gunner’s final resting place resurfaced as the raffler rejoiced in its restored access to fresh meat. Bastard.
Wait, what the hell? There was that cat again, not five steps away from him, observing Boiler attentively. He was angry with the animal, of course, for having nearly cost him his life by nabbing that spore, but again, he had liked cats since he was a kid, so his rifle remained holstered. Any preclusion to violence he had felt earlier, when his anger was still fresh, had calmed down by now. It was this feline friend, after all, who had rescued him just five seconds before he had an appointment with Gurgler’s fangs and claws. Old sayings aside, it was the raffler who had almost been killed by curiosity.
When the cat saw Boiler looking at him, he lowered his head and spit a sporegrape out on the pavement, stepped back, and sat watchfully. Boiler picked up the grape and studied it intensely. The cat had gnawed at it furiously, leaving deep furrows along its surface, gleaning about five percent of it this way. “Wait—do you need these to survive here, too?”
Of course, the animal did not reply, but it continued to look at him in its peculiar manner.
A manner far too intelligent for an animal.
Chapter 15
Boiler pedaled down the road at a steady pace, glad it looked like nobody had been here for a long time. The pavement was in lousy shape, cracked in many places and decorated with green plants jutting up throughout. He was likely in a stable, a cluster where resets never happened or were so rare that he wouldn’t live long enough to see them.
That last thought wasn’t saying much. Nobody lived long in this world.
Immunes built settlements in large stables, the best places to catch a breather and get some help. Not free help, of course, but right now Boiler just wanted information, and people often gave that away, oblivious to its true value. Once he chatted with the right people, he would no longer be a naive, ignorant newcomer.
Perhaps he’d even have a hope at a decent lifespan.
He had a weapon on him, though a weak one, and his half-full canteen of lifewater and one cat-chewed spore were enough for a few days, at least. Good news, since the ambrosia would always be his primary need now.
He was amazed at how a few gulps of the magic swill restored him to good health within minutes. His once-worsening limp now barely hurt at all. Even when he tore the dried bandage off, he managed to do so without clenching his teeth. An hour before, just brushing his leg had nearly made him faint. Lifejuice restored the colors of the world to normal, relaxed his pounding heartbeat, and calmed him down, and he felt better than ever despite all of the misfortunes that had assailed him. What a drink! It seemed so odd now, his feeling of disgust from yesterday upon learning he’d spend the rest of his life drinking swill made from parts of these mutant human corpses.
A tractor came into view up ahead, towing a trailer. It wasn’t the first vehicle he had bumped into on the road, but this one blocked it completely, positioned sideways from curb to curb. Like Lot’s wife, it had become immovable as stone when it decided to look back. Riding around through the tall grass might get tricky, so he dismounted from his bike.
He was about a hundred feet away when his danger intuition system began screaming. Something was wrong, but what? A humanoid shadow flitted across a gap by the tractor. Something or someone was hiding behind the obstruction, and he had no desire to encounter them. He had to clear out of the area, and fast.
He tried to execute a quick turn on his bike but failed, skidding off the narrow road into the tall grass and quickly losing speed.
“Halt! I said halt!” two voices shouted in unison behind him, with a pleasant London lilt to them and a less pleasant metallic click. “I’ll shoot!” said one.
Boiler had no choice but to turn around. The ambush party numbered two, dressed in British police uniforms, one gray-haired older woman accompanied by a young man who was probably under thirty. The elder was already holding her pistol pointed at his face, while the younger was just
drawing his own weapon. “Don’t you move. Hands in the air!”
He sighed, dropped the bicycle, and raised his arms, calmly introducing himself. “Guys, I’m just a newcomer, and not carrying anything worth stealing. Plus, killing a newcomer is bad luck.”
“What the hell are you going on about? Keep your hands up! Drop the rifle!”
“So, which one? Keep my hands up or drop my rifle?”
“Drop the rifle and put your hands back up immediately! What’s that you’ve got ‘round your waist? A shotgun? Is that real?”
“What kind of question is that? No, I carry a toy shotgun around!”
“Insolent clot,” the younger one said in astonishment.
“Down with the shotgun, too!” The woman commanded.
Boiler obeyed, and a new command followed before he was even done.
“Drop the knife. And the rucksack. Now!”
He removed the sheath and long knife he had time from the same slain shooter and then shook his head. “I can’t drop the backpack. The cat inside won’t like that.”
“Why have you got a cat in your rucksack?”
“Where else would I put him? They don’t make bicycle seats for cats, you know.”
“Makes sense, I suppose,” said the woman, softening her tone slightly. “Take two steps to the right and place the sack on the ground. Nice and easy, no sudden movements or we’ll shoot.”
“Alright, no problem, I’m not crazy. Just an ordinary, peace-loving newcomer.”
“Come on now, put it down.”
As soon as the backpack was on the pavement, the cat leaned out, glaring at the police officers.
“Get a load of that mug! What is that, a Maine Coon?”
“I don’t know,” Boiler barked back, “I’m not really good with breeds. Can I put my arms down now?”
“No. Stay right there. Shall I cuff him, Captain?”
“Yeah. I’ll cover you.”
“What the—come on, you arresting me?”
“Detaining you,” the woman said. “Which we have every right to do. You could get yourself locked up for a long time with an arsenal like that.”
“What if I have a permit?”
“Since when have you heard of a permit to carry a shotgun, wise-ass?”
The handcuffs clicked shut, and the captain crouched down and touched the double barrel with her own gun, shaking her head. “Tsk tsk, ruining a firearm like this.”
“Wasn’t me.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t,” said the young man. “I guess the shotgun isn’t yours, either. A gift from your enemies?”
“No, I took it off a dead man.”
Wrong move. The bobbies were flabbergasted. “A corpse? What corpse? Where?”
“What are you doing to me?” Boiler was starting to become immune to surprises, but this still stumped him. “There are corpses everywhere! An hour back I happened to run into a poor dead guy and took a few things off him. He didn’t need them. Now I’m looking for a stable.”
“Are you under the influence?”
“Under the—you mean drugs? No, I’m not!”
“Have you got any ID?
“I did. Lost it yesterday, what with everything that happened.”
She circled around the trailer, commanding the others to follow.
“What should be done with these?” The young man pointed to the things Boiler had dropped.
“They can stay there for the moment. They’re not about to go anywhere.”
Two cars were hiding behind the tractor and trailer. Boiler was surprised to see that neither of them had any police markings. This is a very strange pair. A mustached man of about forty years emerged from the car and started talking rapidly. “Well, have you found a way around? She’s not doing well, so we’ve got to get going.”
The woman shook her head. “The road is in bad shape, but we found this—native. He was riding a bicycle, carrying a couple of guns.”
Mustache stared at Boiler and hissed, “So this is him?”
The man shook his head. “We don’t know. This one had a small-caliber rifle. Doesn’t match the profile.”
“Are you the shooter, then?!” the mustached officer continued, ignoring the words of the policeman.
“I never shot anyone, so just calm down! What is so wrong with you people?”
The man threw open the door, nearly breaking it. “Here! This is what’s wrong!
A middle-aged woman was lying down in the back seat. Her face was pale, and a few hundred feet of bandages were wound around her upper torso, stained by a patch of blood.
“You see that? Who did that, huh? Your friends, or you?”
“Calm down, like I said, I had nothing to do with this, and I haven’t even been here long enough to make friends yet. It looks like you guys need to find a stable too. Soon. She needs a doctor.”
“Where did you think we were taking her?”
Boiler shrugged. “Like I said, I’m not familiar with this area. If you could stop talking nonsense and just tell me where there’s a stable around here that has a decent doctor or two, I’d be much obliged.”
“What is this ‘stable’ you keep going on about?” the older woman asked.
This confirmed Boiler’s suspicions, but he felt that he should make sure. “Would you have happened to pass through a thick mist a short time ago?”
“Thickest I’ve ever seen,” the young man replied, “and the reason we got lost.”
“Let me guess. You came out of the fog and realized the road was, well, different somehow. As if you were seeing it for the first time in your lives.”
“Right. We had no idea how in hell we’d gotten ourselves turned the wrong way. How did you know?”
“And why is the mist important?” the captain interjected.
“Because it overtook me just like it overtook you. Not today, though. Yesterday. Since then, I’ve been trying to survive here.”
“Survive?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Tell it.”
“You’ll never see the familiar road you were driving along again, nor will you find any doctor you know. A serious twist of fate has hit us both. I don’t know the details, but this place is like some kind of other world. A very dangerous world. Multiple times now, I’ve barely escaped with my life, which I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
“You’ve taken a beating, that’s obvious,” the woman acknowledged. “But trying to pitch other worlds to a police officer? That is something else.”
“Of course, now you’ll go trying to cart me off to the madhouse.”
“If we must. You naturally know which way we should go, so show us. Now.”
“That car have GPS?”
“Yes, but it can’t find a signal,” the young man replied unhelpfully.
“Huh. How strange. Wait, let me guess: none of your cell phones have signal either. It just suddenly dropped.”
“How did you know that?” asked the older man.
“Got a walkie talkie or radio or something?” asked Boiler, looking at the woman.
She shook her head.
“No matter. It wouldn’t get any signal here, either. You’re in a different world now, so might as well get used to it. There’s no mobile service at all, anywhere. I’m not sure about radios, but if you managed to contact someone, it wouldn’t be any formerly-existing friends of yours. Enough of this nonsense, and enough of your protocols and prohibitions. Take this cuffs off. I’m the only chance you’ve got.”
“Yeah right,” muttered the captain.
“That’s the spirit. Keep that up and you’ll be dead before you know it. And you’ll take me with you, for no reason at all.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Who shot the woman?”
“That’s what you should be telling us.”
The older man interrupted. “We were just driving down the road when someone shot at the car, twice. The first bullet just broke the window, but the second...”
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“Who could have done that?” the captain asked.
Boiler shrugged again. “Anyone, really. This is just my second day here, so I don’t know who’s who yet. Just an hour ago, I barely escaped being shot by that rifle you took from me. Back at that village with the grain elevator.”
“Who attacked you?”
“Some dick in a homemade camo suit. He was carrying the shotgun, too.”
“Your story doesn’t line up. He had a rifle and a shotgun, and you were unarmed. How is he the one that ended up dead?”
“I got lucky.”
“And what about that corpse you mentioned?”
“That was his corpse. While I was trying to avoid getting shot, one of those maturing zombeasts crept up behind him and bit him in the neck.”
“‘Zombeasts’!”
“Uh, haven’t you seen the wandering ghouls? No, I guess not, since you’re so new here. Well, everyone that comes to this place becomes infected with some unknown powerful germ. It takes most people entirely, turning them into something like zombies. They’re not dead per se, but you can tell by looking at them. They eat a lot of meat to stay alive, both each other and immunes. Immunes are the lucky ones. They’re infected, too, but they don’t turn into beasts—they remain normal people with their own slew of problems, to be sure. If one of these zombies matures by eating enough, it becomes stronger, faster, and deadlier. That’s what happened to that rifle guy.”
“His eyes look normal, but he’s clearly on something,” the young man remarked.
The woman nodded. “Where did you say your ID was?”
Boiler shook his head. “I told you already.”
“Tell me again.”
He sighed. “I left it at the library as collateral so they’d let me check out the comic books.”
“This guy thinks he’s a clown.”
“Well, it’s my best chance to get myself hired into your circus of morons here.”
“What’s your name?”
“Forget about your old names. Here it’s bad luck to even think about them. I’m just Boiler now.”
“Alright, Boiler, let’s go for a ride.”