by Karpa, Boris
“Oh.” – the apprentice said.
For a while there was silence. The Mayor raised his radio to his ear again, asking questions and uttering orders, and then waiting for replies as his men prepared for their next task. Arthur, meanwhile, stood by the window once more. Through the flow of water on the glass, he could not make out the tent camp anymore – only the gleam of silvery tents and the flashes of bright color made themselves evident as barely-recognizable spots in the gray blur. He tried to imagine the tents in winter, and couldn't. In his mind, he saw Florentine Park completely covered in snow, with the tents becoming merely white mounds, simply bumps on the pristine white surface – like a drawing of winter in a children's book – except, of course, some of the mounds would become grave mounds. He shivered.
Maybe they could make winter housing, he thought. He heard from Martin that, in an emergency, you could dig a house in the ground. He wasn't quite sure how it was done, but he did not expect that to be very good in winter. More importantly, he could not visualize the people he had seen outside, in the park, digging themselves winter homes. There was no way they could all make it through winter, he realized now. And these people would realize it, too – either shortly after the frosts started, or, if they were smart – and they had to be smart if they were still alive – long before winter.
Theodore Jackson knew this, too, Arthur realized. What would they do when they realized that? Would they start fighting for room in the few homes that the Republic had already cleared out? Would they simply try to strike out on their own, hoping to take back a house or two from the ghouls? There was no way these questions would have a reasonable and decent answer. And again, Arthur realized that the Mayor had at least contemplated this very topic. This was probably precisely why he had agreed to Martin’s plan. The Florentines had to get those dry storage supplies or they were all doomed.
He gulped audibly. What if they didn't make it? He trusted Martin to have some kind of plan – but there were after all thousands of ghouls involved. Arthur tried to imagine an amount of ghouls like this all in one place. He couldn't – his mind kept bringing up the image from this morning, the crowd that they had confronted from the skyscraper's roof. But this one was going to be much larger, and they clearly weren't about to just snipe at them from the rooftops.
Arthur looked out into the distorted, gray October landscape beyond the window. If they failed – even if they did not die, what would they do if they failed? What if turned out impossible, and they had to retreat? What were all those people in the camp going to do?
Suddenly in his mind rose the image of the City – as if his mind was zooming out, taking him away from the mere Florentine park in front of him. He saw the Ashfords' small house, and the houses of the other people that he and Martin visited in the weeks he'd been Martin's apprentice – small summer homes and dug-out shelters in hillsides, lone survivors and families in mobile homes staking out tall places to keep the ghouls away, people huddling in shipping containers put on stilts so that the ghouls would not climb up and get them. He imagined these homes in winter, with the harsh snow and cold, with men and women huddling inside, shivering from both cold and fear. And slowly, he realized, one after one, these little, candle-like flickers of life would go out, like all candles eventually do – and the ones that wouldn't would become merely embers – modern cavemen, whimpering in the dark when the last generator went out.
Arthur thought of the ghouls too – their faces, their milky-white, meaningless eyes and rotten, blackened lips, pulling back to reveal teeth that were human in their shape and makeup – but that were out to bite, gnaw, tear at his flesh. The thought that these creatures would now rule the world filled him with a chill that was far worse than the simple cold. He felt the strength flowing out of his body.
- "What are we going to do?" – he asked, not really expecting an answer from anybody. The question hung in the cold air, unanswered. Instead, there was the light sound of water being poured.
- "For a start," – Martin's voice replied behind him – "We're going to get a drink each."
Arthur turned away from the window. He saw the advisor pouring the contents of his kettle into the mugs. It was brackish, disgusting to look at, with tea leaves bobbing and hovering on the surface of each cup. In the cold air, steam continued to rise from the black surface, lending the drink a an intimidating look, like a witch's brew.
- "Here you go, people," – Martin said, having filled the three mugs with chifir. "Just be careful with it, all right?"
- "Careful?" – the Mayor asked.
- "Yes. Drink slowly. Sip it, don't gulp the entire thing down."
- "Is it that strong?" – the Mayor looked incredulous.
- "Yes. It is. Some people have it even stronger."
- "Stronger? You mean?"
- "In the Second World war, sometimes the high-speed, low-drag types would simply put dry tea leaves in their mouth and chew on them before they went out on a mission. I've read that some units even issued caffeine in pills. Just tiny white pills with caffeine in them, with a little sugar mixed in to make it easier for people to eat the pills."
- "Wow." – said Arthur and brought the mug to his lips.
It was unbelievably bitter, like the bitterness of very strong tea – except amplified. For a moment, he felt tempted to simply gulp the entire contents of the cup down as soon as he could, to dispense with the need to feel the disgusting taste, but he fought it down. Slowly, he sipped on the black fluid. Next to him, the Mayor did the same. It took them several minutes to finish their cups.
- "Wow." – said Jackson, breathing out as he put aside the empty cup – "That's just some hardcore stuff there. I feel it taking already."
Arthur just nodded slowly. He was beginning to feel it 'take' too – it was like the feeling from the strongest tea he'd ever drunk, except increased until it entered a whole new level. It was not only that he felt more awake – no, he felts stronger. His mind seemed exceptionally clear, as if he could understand and fulfill any task. As the drink took hold, he felt his body clear itself of even the trace of tiredness. His fingers felt nimble, accurate, and strong – if a ghoul burst through the door right now, Arthur would not even not use a gun to kill him. In his mind's eye, he had a brief and glorious mental image of that – of himself, bright and strong, gouging the ghoul's eyes with his fingers and ripping out its brain.
- "Wow," -he answered – "That's some tea."
The three men grinned at each other, their eyes shining with unnatural joy.
"Come on." – said Martin, – "Let's go and meet with the raid teams. This stuff is only going to last that long, and we want to get it done today. Let's go people, we're out of bubble gum."
*
Once more that day, the gates of the Florentine Republic opened wide, letting forth a long motorcade. There were dark-green trucks carrying dozens of men, buses with their windows covered with metal grates, and two tractors. Jackson rode in Martin's red Yo-Mobile, the radio pressed to his ear, talking to his men, issuing last-minute orders. Sometimes a motorcycle with a sidecar bounced out of the wet twilight beyond the windows, passing by the red car.
The Florentine men were dressed in every manner of clothing – there was no point in uniforms. Humans were friends, and ghouls were enemies. It was as simple as that. Instead, they focused on making their clothing as tough and reliable as possible. Some wore biker jackets and full-face helmets, others simply put on Army helmets and flak jackets or strapped on knee pads and elbow protectors – everything to make sure that the ghouls could not bite through. Even the tiniest scratch of a ghoul's nails could mean death.
Ghouls, of course, tried to attack the convoy. Sometimes they simply shambled in its direction as it approached – harmless shadows in the rain, the trucks passed them by without notice. Sometimes a motorcycle rider would snap off a shot or two, not even bothering to stop and aim. Sometimes, excited by the smell of fresh human flesh, some of the creatures rushed f
aster at the vehicles, leaping and bounding at the passing buses and trucks. That accomplished nothing – at times they were simply knocked down by the hulking vehicles. At others, one of the ghouls would manage to hang by its fingers from the metal nets that covered the windows of the buses. Then, a gunshot would ring out and the body fell back to the asphalt, laying there like a rag doll, almost unnoticeable by the rain. Once, the Yo-Mobile hit a ghoul after it was knocked down by one of the trucks. There was a loud bumping noise, and then a crunch as the creature's bones gave way under their wheels, and then nothing.
They were perhaps half an hour away from the gates by the time they took the first casualty. Arthur had no way of expecting it – he felt relaxed in the cabin of the Yo-Mobile, protected by the speed of their movement and the vehicle hull. The sudden scream pierced him to the very bone.
It wasn't clear how this particular ghoul came to intercept a moving motorcycle – perhaps it was simply lucky in the timing of its jump, or perhaps the rider had not noticed it in the rain. But it was now riding with the motorcycle crew – perched precariously on top of the sidecar, clenching the sidecar rider with its rotten fingers, its teeth chomping and gnashing powerlessly as it bit on the front of its helmet again and again.
The rider screamed incoherently, yanking the steering left and right, trying to shake off the undead stowaway. The vehicle bobbed in front of the Yo-Mobile, crossing the spot of light made by its headlights, and for a second Arthur could see it all too clearly – the undead creature, half-naked, its skin grey and tight against muscle and boned, hugging its victims with its legs, grasping at him with its arms, teeth scratching weakly against the helmet. The sidecar rider headbutted the monster just as he came into view, and it was probably not the first blow – black blood and yellowish pus was pouring down the monster's face. But of course it was useless – the living dead did not feel pain. The rider screamed once more as the motorcycle vanished out of sight, and this time Arthur understood his meaning. It did not need words. It was simply naked, pre-human fear.
And then there was a crashing sound, somewhere off to their left and front. Martin stepped on the brakes even before the noise was over, and the crossover screamed as it came to a halt on the wet asphalt. And then a gunshot came.
The scene that revealed itself to them as they threw open the car doors required no help. The motorcycle was laying on its side, the rider crushed under its weight. He had clearly been slain instantly. The sidecar rider was suspended precariously in mid-air, still in his sidecar, holding a small, silvery revolver in one hand. The creature that had attacked them was sprawled out on the ground a few yards away, its arms and legs splayed out at unnatural angles, the front of its head – it was hard to call it a face – ruined and covered in blood.
And from the darkness, more ghouls were even now appearing, their shadows approaching through the rain. Without thought, Arthur snapped the rifle to his shoulder. He could barely see the approaching enemy, but there was no time to wait for the ghouls to come close. He pulled the trigger.
The rifle spat out a burst of fire and smoke, the muzzle flash appearing even larger in the evening darkness. He saw the dark shadow jerk slightly – clearly he hit it – but it kept approaching. He aimed higher, and pulled the trigger twice more, not waiting for the result. This time, the shadow collapsed. Behind him, Theodore Jackson rushed towards the overturned bike – and his pistol barked loudly. Everybody needs to be put to rest properly. That included the dead rider, of course.
The rifle snapped like a whip, the recoil pushing lightly into Arthur's shoulder. He no longer gave the process any thought. He simply fired into the ghouls as they approached – knowing that the closer they came, the faster they would become.
Next to him, Martin's .45 pistol joined in the cacophony. He did not even turn to look what the advisor was firing it – he had already learned that it was simply enough to assume that Martin knew what he was doing. Martin worked methodically – his legs spread to shoulder level, his right arm nearly straight, with the pistol held level in the palm, and the left arm half-bent, the fingers of the left hand supporting his wrist. His entire torso swiveled like a tank turret. Every time he found a target, the pistol fired twice in a rapid succession. Before the ghoul even done falling to the ground, the advisor was already tracking for a new target.
Behind them, Mayor Jackson helped the surviving rider out of the sidecar, hefting him to his arms and the lowering him gently to the ground. And then the rider screamed.
“They're everywhere! Oh god! We're left behind!”
One thing was certainly right – the ghouls where everywhere. Emerging the abandoned homes, attracted by the sound of gun fired, they were shambling towards them from every direction. They were not fast yet – perhaps not quite properly excited enough, or perhaps dulled by the rainfall, the constant noise of water reducing their already bad hearing and the rain and wind blocking their sense of smell.
“Nonsense!” – the Mayor shouted – “They'll come back for us! Retreat to the car!”
For a briefest instant, Arthur turned around – and saw the Mayor drawing a weapon from a thigh holster. It was a pump-action shotgun – as short as a man's arm from elbow to wrist, without a stock. The Mayor held it out in one arm, like an old-fashioned dueling pistol, and fired it. It roared like a hungry beast, spitting out a tongue of flame and a shower of sparks that made Arthur's own gun look downright pitiful.
Arthur could not find out whether the Mayor hit his target or not. He had other problems to deal with. In the brief instant in which he had been distracted, a single ghoul appeared out the rain and darkness, literally next to the Yo-Mobile's bumper. Arthur panicked – a second more and they wouldn't be able to escape. He pulled the trigger – again and again and again. The creature jerked with impacts, black blood spurting from fresh wounds on its chest – but did not fall. Instead, it simply stepped another yard closer to Arthur. The head! He remembered Go for the head! He aimed higher and shot again. The creature's head was thrown backwards, as if it had received a mighty punch, and then it fell.
For a brief moment, the world around him was a cacophony of gunshots as four guns fired at once. Bright flashes filled his vision as Arthur made a first, broad step towards the red car. It was five yards away – and there, just behind the car, stood yet another ghoul. It stood motionlessly, peering over the roof of the car with its blank white eyes. He did not even remember himself deciding to pull the trigger anymore – the rifle simply fired in his arms, and the creature fell backwards.
Martin burst forward, bouncing like a tiger across the five yards. In mid-motion, he ejected the empty magazine from his pistol into the waiting left hand. By the time he was at the car, crouching by the open door he already had the new one in his hand, like a magician pulling out a trick card.
And then, suddenly, without a warning, the darkness lit up. Another motorcycle – tearing through the street like on a race. The dead creatures paused as if they were stunned. For a beautiful, brief moment, Arthur saw them lit up in the vehicle lights, their faces turned towards the speeding bike, their milky-white, empty eyes and dead faces seeming to be frozen in astonishment. Of course, the undead could not be astonished.
More headlights! Now a large, broad-sitting vehicle appeared, a jeep over two yards wide. It's high-sitting bumper ran into one of the undead creatures, bones crunching as the ghoul was thrown at least a dozen yards.
“What is happening?!” – the sidecar rider they rescued shouted, the hurricane of new noises and lights stunning him like a sudden blow. – “What the hell is happening?”
For a brief moment, there was no way to answer him at all. On top of the broad jeep, there was a blinding flash. Then there was a sound that was like nothing Arthur had ever heard before – drowning out the sound of his own rifle, much less the sound of any speech. He felt his ears being violently assaulted by the incredible noise. Right in front of him, he saw ghouls being literally ripped apart, legs and
arms blown off by what must have been the biggest bullets that man had ever cast, their bodies thrown like rag dolls, torn and shredded by the fire. Almost on instinct, Arthur fired towards the creatures that somehow survived this new onslaught – not because he thought the newcomers to this scene needed his help, but because he was in the fight and he needed to still be doing his part. He did not put it in quite so many words at that moment – but he knew he had to keep shooting, that this was the thing to do. Next to him, the others fired as well. And then the shooting stopped as abruptly as it had begun.
“What is that?” – the sidecar rider shouted. – “What is that?” In his hand, the empty revolver clicked, and clicked again. It took the man an obvious effort to take his finger off the trigger and to begin reloading the gun with shaky hands.
“Florentine, tried and true!” – the shout came back from the broad truck.
Theodore Jackson stood next to the man he rescued. Only looking at them now, Arthur was struck by realization how tall the leader of the Florentine Republic was – tall, even taller than Martin, he stood a head and a half taller than the sidecar rider. He rested a palm on the man's shoulder and said:
“See? I was right. They did come back for us. Come on, get in that thing,” – he pointed to the broad jeep. You need to rest awhile. Hey people!” – he shouted – “Get the body and the bike! It does nobody any good to leave either of them here!”
Several Florentines emerged from the broad vehicle, rushing past them to the turned-over bike. As Arthur walked past them and to the Yo-Mobile, he shouted – after the gunfire bacchanalia they'd just experienced, simply talking was against every instinct:
“How did you know to come back? We didn't radio for help!”
“Dude!” – one of them replied – “You should have listened to the noise you were making! A shot or two, we'd think you'd just shot a ghoul, but with enough fire to fight a war, we knew someone was in trouble! And the last car of the convoy was missing! We did two and two together!”