by Ben Brown
He got to his feet and headed for the pen’s gate.
“Hey! Who the hell are you!”
Callum turned to see a man nearly as big as La Roux charging straight for him. Callum’s hand went to his tomahawk, but before he could draw it from its holster, the man had already slammed him into the pen’s gate. Callum fought as the giant’s hand wrapped around his throat and his feet left the dirt. He lashed out at the man’s face with his fists, but his blows were ineffectual against the oaf’s thick skull. Callum could now feel hands pawing at him from behind. The undead were trying to grab him through the slats of the gate.
His left hand once more went in search of his tomahawk, and this time he managed to pull it free of its restraint. He raised it high in the air, but the giant’s free hand shot to his wrist. His assailant squeezed, and Callum dropped his tomahawk as he felt his wrist break. The man then slammed Callum’s useless hand against the gate. It hit the wood so hard that it smashed through the timber and into the pen. Instantly, he felt teeth biting into the leather of his gloved hand. He knew he only had a few seconds before the teeth found his flesh, and then the Lingering would enter his blood.
The man grinned and tightened his grip on Callum’s throat. “Seems our friends in there have a taste for ya,” he growled as he drew his face closer to Callum’s. “Once they’ve had your hand, I might just throw you over to ‘em.”
With the oxygen to his brain cut off, Callum could feel himself beginning to pass out. He needed to act, and fast. Callum’s remaining free hand worked its way down the man’s body until it landed on the handle of a knife. The thug could feel what Callum was doing, but with both his hands full, he could do nothing to stop him. As Callum pulled the knife, the teeth of a Lingerer penetrated the leather of his glove, and he felt his flesh begin to tear as the ghoul bit down harder. He only had one option left open to him.
The giant man’s eyes went wide as Callum brought the large knife up in a high, fast-moving arc. The man followed the blade with his eyes as Callum raised it, then slammed it down on his intended target. The man released his grip on Callum, and stumbled back. The look of shock and disbelief on his face was unmistakable.
Callum dropped to the dirt, coughing and cradling his damaged wrist. Blood spurted from the grizzled stump, but Callum worked against the pain of severing his own hand. It had been his only option. He had to cut off his hand before the disease could reach his blood stream; otherwise he would be cursed to become one of the undead. Callum looked up at the monster of a man before him, and focused on what had to be done. The man, in turn, stared at Callum’s handless, blood soaked wrist with a combination of disbelief and shock.
Callum did not wait; instead, he leaped to his feet and attacked. It took him less than a second to dispatch his attacker by using the man’s own knife. As the giant hit the dirt, Callum turned and dashed to his tomahawk, which lay on the ground a few feet away. He holstered it, and then turned his gaze to a fire near one of the tents. A pot hung in its flames and a thick column of steam rose from the pot.
He could hear the camp beginning to stir. Voices were starting to emanate from every direction, and he realized he only had a matter of seconds before his escape would become impossible. But first, he needed to stem his bleeding, so he gritted his teeth and ran for the pot.
Callum took several deep breaths, and pressed his mutilated wrist against the pot’s piping hot metal. His head swam with pain, and once again unconsciousness threatened to take him. However, he knew he could not relent, so he swallowed back a scream and pressed his stump harder against the pot. The smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils and the stench instantly revived him.
“Over there!” a voice shouted to his right.
Callum looked in the direction of the shouts, and saw two men running in his direction. His good hand went to his six-shooter, but before he could draw it, the gate to the pen holding the Lingerers finally gave way. The undead erupted from the gate like a torrent of rotting flesh. They instantly saw the two men running toward Callum, and made a beeline straight for them. In a heartbeat, the men’s shouts turned to screams. More men began to appear, but the Lingerers made short work of them all. Callum removed his wrist from the pot, and then vomited into the flames at what he saw.
The wound looked like a badly burned piece of steak, but at least the cauterization of his flesh had stopped the bleeding. The flap on the front of the tent closest to him opened, and a man holding a rifle stepped out. His eyes fixed on Callum, but then they turned to the mayhem by the pen. Without thinking, Callum pulled his gun and promptly put a bullet in the man’s head. He then turned and looked toward the Lingerers feeding a few yards away. Several now looked in his direction, and he knew he was next on the menu. He put a round in each head of the Lingerers staring at him, then he bolted off to find La Roux and the women.
With every jarring step he took, bolts of pain roared up his injured arm. The pain was almost unbearable, but thanks to his cold single mindedness he was able to compartmentalize it. Pain was just something to endure, but never something to succumb to. He pounded onwards and drove all discomfort from his mind. After a few minutes of intense running, he stopped to look for signs of La Roux and the women.
His heart was pounding like a sledgehammer in his chest, and his vision kept moving in and out of focus. Suddenly, he heard the sound of pursuers crashing through the trees behind him. With the knowledge that the noise was most likely the result of the undead, he turned to look in the direction of the sound. As he turned, his foot caught on a root hidden beneath the carpet of leaves that covered the ground. He crashed to the dirt, landing heavily on his injured arm. Despite his considerable self-control, he screamed with pain.
At that moment, two Lingerers burst into the tiny clearing where he lay, and they eyed him hungrily. He knew he had to fight, but his body refused all orders his brain sent it. He feebly reached for his gun, but he fainted before his hand got within six inches of it.
The Lingerers moved closer to his unconscious body, and as if to call others to their location, they let out a loud, guttural sound. The creatures peered around for a few moments longer, then they lunged for the fallen Ranger.
Chapter 8
La Roux led the women deeper into the thick undergrowth of the woodlands surrounding the Maxwell’s camp. He had to put as much distance between them and the camp as he could before Callum released the undead. He looked over his shoulder and saw most of the women were falling far behind him. He stopped and waited for the closest, Tilly’s sister, to catch up.
“What’s yer name?” La Roux whispered as she reached him.
“Isabelle, but folks call me Izzy.”
“Listen up, Izzy. Unless we get a move on, we’re going to end up dead.”
“I know that,” she hissed. “But none of us have eaten in days. We’re weak and we’re tired.”
“That’s as may be, but you’ll all be just as dead if either the men in that camp, or the Lingerers catch us. Do what you have to, but make it clear to the rest of the women that they’re moving too slow.”
“Why don’t you tell ‘em?”
“I think they’ve had enough of men barking orders at ‘em.”
At that moment, the sound of distant gunshots filled the air.
“Is that your friend?” Izzy asked as she looked back toward the camp.
“I think it may be. If he’s using his gun, then he’s in real trouble.”
“I know of a cave just east of here, and only us women know of it. After severe beatings we use it to hide out in. We could wait there ‘til your friend catches us up.”
La Roux nodded. “You take the others to the cave, I’m going to go and check on Callum. Just in case I can’t find you, have someone keep an eye out for us.”
Izzy looked scared, but she complied with La Roux’s request.
The big Cajun watched as the women trooped past him, and then he headed back in the direction he had just come. He felt bad for abando
ning them so soon, but he knew he had no choice. Everything told him Callum was in trouble, and he would not abandon him to either the Maxwells, or the undead.
Izzy had her head screwed on, and he knew she would make sure her kin made it safely to the cave. Things never went smoothly, and improvisation was the hallmark of a good Ranger. It was time to improvise. With luck, he would find his companion merely pinned down. If that were the case, then he hoped for a quick return.
* * *
La Roux navigated his huge body silently through the dark undergrowth of the woods, and despite his concerns over Callum’s safety, he did not allow himself to panic. He knew the young man was most likely the best Ranger he had ever met. No matter how bad things got, Callum never seemed flustered or intimidated by events unfolding around him. If anyone could take care of themselves, it was Callum Wentworth.
More shots rang out from the direction of the camp, and La Roux quickened his pace. He knew Callum intended to create as much havoc as he could, but the sounds of gunfire somehow frightened the Cajun. He knew Callum only ever used his gun in the most extreme of circumstances, the rest of the time he relied on silent forms of killing, such as his tomahawk. If the young Ranger had resorted to using his gun, then things must be grim.
After a few minutes of running, La Roux could hear the sounds of undead all around him. He drew to a stop, pulled his large hunting knife, and readied himself for their inevitable attack. To his left, a blood chilling cry of the undead filled the air, and he spun on his heels to face the threat. He had heard such calls of the undead before, and he knew it meant only one thing … Lingerers were about to feast and they were calling for they kind to join them. La Roux did not think; he just reacted. Every muscle in his body leaped into adrenaline filled action, and he charged toward the terrifying bellows.
This is what Rangers were born to do. They faced death head on, and never flinched in the face of overwhelming odds. La Roux’s heart pumped adrenaline to every cell of his body, and an almost euphoric sense of anticipation filled him. As far as he and every other Ranger was concerned, Lingerers were a blight that needed to be eradicated. Facing the undead always filled him with fear, but the greater feeling that prevailed over him was one of good. Fear always faded because he knew that if he died in battle, then at least he died ridding the world of the undead. He did not suppose this bought him a free ticket into heaven, but he hoped it got him close.
La Roux burst into the clearing and abruptly halted. Two Lingerers were about to feed on an unconscious man laid in the dirt. It took La Roux a second to realize the Lingerers’ intended meal was Callum! With his shock dissipating, La Roux leaped to the young Ranger’s aid.
One of the Lingerers already had its mouth a mere inch from Callum’s face, so La Roux threw his knife at it with all his might. The blade tore into the creature’s skull and near sliced its head in two. The second Lingerer turned its attention to the Cajun and charged him like an enraged bull. La Roux parried the charging creature, and sent it headfirst into a nearby tree. The foul thing crumpled to the dirt, but it was far from out of the fight. As the Lingerer struggled back to its feet, La Roux pulled his neckerchief up over his mouth and nose—so as to block unwanted Lingerer gore from entering his system—then moved to finish it. However, the Cajun had hardly moved before strong hands gripped him from behind. More Lingerers had arrived.
La Roux threw his full body weight backward, and slammed the new arrival to the dirt beneath him. No sooner than they had landed in the dirt, then La Roux rolled to one side and grabbed up a nearby rock. The creature, which had just been beneath him, lunged forward, but the rock in La Roux’s hand met it halfway. He drove the rock into the creature’s mouth with the speed and force of a runaway steam train. The Lingerers jaw shattered, and La Roux pounded its head with the rock twice more. The Cajun now knelt near the corpse of the Lingerer that had his knife protruding from its skull. He retrieved his weapon and rounded on the Lingerer he had just thrown into the tree.
Two more Lingerers stood at the creature’s side, and all three charged La Roux almost as one. The big Cajun widened his stance and readied himself for their onslaught. As the first creature reached him, he raised his forearm and allowed it to sink its teeth into the thick leather of his protective coat. With that ghoul occupied, his attention turned to the second of the three. With its mouth open so wide it almost looked as if it had unhinged, it leaped into the air and flew toward his throat. The Cajun held his ground, and lunged out with his knife. With a grisly thunk-slurp, his blade found the creature’s skull and entered bone and brain alike. The ghoul’s aerobatic flight stopped as soon as his head slammed into the knife’s hilt. With its brains obliterated by his blade, it dropped harmlessly to the dirt at the big Cajun’s feet.
Now the third of the undead drew closer, so La Roux drove his shoulder into the creature latched to his arm, and charged toward the third Lingerer. He hit it hard and continued back toward the tree the creature had hit only moments earlier. The three of them, two undead and one living, slammed into the tree, which made the Lingerer chewing on his arm release its bite. As quick as a snake, La Roux pierced its head with his blade, and then he did the same to the one pinned to the tree. More groaning filled the clearing behind him, and La Roux turned to see at least ten undead heading his way.
He holstered his knife and pulled both his six-shooters. Damn the noise, the time for hand to teeth combat is over. Now the real killing will begin, he thought as he prepared for the onslaught.
Raising both guns at once, La Roux moved toward the undead and opened fire. His breathing was level, as were his emotions. He had done this many times before. One head, one bullet. He opened fire and began felling the foul smelling creatures who were so intent on tasting his blood. With each shot, a Lingerer fell, but almost instantly another took its place. The first of his six-shooters ran dry, and he threw it in the air and caught it by its barrel. The metal was hot, but his leather gloves absorbed much of the heat. Soon, his other gun ran dry; again, he threw it in the air and caught it by the barrel.
He now stood astride Callum like a sentinel. A creature missing half its face ran at him, but the Cajun brought one of his guns down on its head like a club. Its skull exploded like a ripe melon, bathing both the Cajun and Callum in blood and brains. He only hoped none of the gore made its way into Callum’s unconscious mouth, but there was little he could do if it had. He had no time to worry about such things, so instead he concentrated on killing. Again and again, the creatures attacked, but like Samson with his donkey’s jawbone, La Roux clubbed them away with ease.
Before the tide of undead subsided, the Cajun had caved in the skulls of around ten undead with his six-shooters. With his chest heaving from his exertion, La Roux waited for more undead to arrive, but none came. He looked around the tiny moonlit clearing, and counted close to thirty lifeless bodies. Had he really killed that many Lingerers single-handedly? He guessed he had.
A groan brought him back from his thoughts, and he looked down at the man beneath him. Callum was beginning to wake, which meant it was time to go. La Roux stepped to one side as he holstered his blood soaked guns, then he bent to pick up the injured Ranger at his feet. In the mayhem of protecting his fallen companion, La Roux had noticed very little about Callum’s condition. It was then he noticed his friend was missing a hand.
The Cajun froze. Had Callum been bitten? La Roux drew his knife and readied himself to dispatch the young Ranger. He placed the tip of his blade inside Callum’s ear, and then took a closer look at the young Ranger’s injured wrist. He lifted the mutilated stump closer to his eyes and studied the wound closely. It showed no signs of teeth marks. In fact, it looked like a clean cut that had been sealed by fire or heat.
“Did you do this yourself?” La Roux whispered as he removed the tip of his knife from Callum’s ear. “Did you do this to save yourself?”
Callum mumbled something from his semiconscious lips, but La Roux could not make out what his
young friend said. To his rear, and far too close, he heard the sounds of men shouting to each other. His questions could wait, it was time to move.
As gently as he could, the Cajun lifted Callum into his arms and turned to go. For the briefest of moments, he contemplated staying to fight the men who had caused his friend so much pain, but one look at Callum’s pale face told him that would not be a good idea. With that, La Roux ran off in the direction of the cave, and hopefully at least a small amount of safety.
Chapter 9
Izzy stood hidden on an out crop of rocks approximately one hundred yards from the mouth of the cave, in which hid the rest of the women from camp Maxwell. She shook slightly as she strained her eyes and peered off into the dark and distant tree line. She shook not because of cold or hunger, but because fear seemed to fill every inch of her body.
Fear was something she and the other women in the cave behind her had grown used to. So constant was the sensation that she had almost accepted it as normal, or at least as normal as life in the mountains would ever seem. Just as she accepted winter was cold and Lingerers ate living flesh, fear had become a constant. In other words, fear was something she could do little to relieve or abate. Yet the fear she felt now was something new … more palpable, more threatening.
For the first time in a long time, she saw a little light at the end of the tunnel. She saw freedom for not only herself, but also the other women back in the cave. The fear she now felt was not the fear caused by constant beatings and rape, but rather the fear of losing what little glimmer of hope she and the others had. If the Rangers failed to return, then she and the others would surely be captured. The beatings they received as punishment would be severe, but what really frightened her was the thought of never being free of her family. Freedom hung on the two Rangers, and if they failed to return, then all was lost.