by White, Ben
"Water? You have water? I'm dreadfully thirsty, could I beg a drop?" Aaron said—he looked out again at the oncoming zombies. The nearest was still a few dozen metres away. "I'd say I have time for some liquid refreshment before doing battle with those undead horses. That time was deliberate, just to be clear. Undead horses, can you even imagine? If they're anything like the ones in RDR they'd be an unholy nightmare to handle."
Imogen already had a bottle of water and an energy bar from the bag—she gestured for Zack to give a bottle to Aaron.
"Ah, thanking you, thanking you muchly." Aaron gulped back the water within a matter of seconds, then tossed the bottle aside and covered his mouth as he belched. "Excuse ME, that was just impolite. I don't know what came over me. All right, Zackster! Ready to face those zombsters?"
Zack nodded seriously. "I'm ready!"
"Good attitude, then let's go! Imogen, we'll be back in a jiff."
Imogen limped to the door to watch them go—she could hear Aaron chattering as he led Zack swiftly forward:
"Now, my marvellous vehicle is just through there, we've got a clear path through to it. Well, except for all those cars and zombies. Oh well. Just think of it as more XP, we'll all level up by the time we're done with this section. Oh, we might even get a bonus for clearing this part—and there's almost certainly going to be an achievement for getting out of the convention centre. I wonder what it'll be called—Convention Over, maybe, or From The Ashes, this being the 'Phoenix' Convention Centre—okay, stay back while I deal with these fine fellows ..."
Imogen watched as Aaron dealt with the first zombies—she was somewhat relieved to see that he didn't play with them in the slightest, simply took them out with fast, efficient strikes. Often he used the 'hook' of the hockey stick to tug their legs out from under them before slashing at their arms. Down them first, Imogen thought. Destroy what little mobility they have, then when they try to get up or reach up to claw you, their arms are easy targets. She noticed she was reaching down to touch HopeKiller, where it lay balanced against her leg.
Aaron was singing now, as he led Zack further in, towards a larger group of zombies, and even after they were out of sight Imogen could hear it echoing back—"A little bit of THIS, a little bit of THAT, a little bit of THIS, a little bit of THAT, a little bit of uh-oh! A little bit of ... UH-oh! A little bit of uh-oh! A ... little bit of ... uh ... oh! A little bit ... of this! And a little ... bit ..."
Aaron's singing stopped. Imogen waited nervously, chewing on the energy bar, using the water to try to make swallowing it easier. Silence continued, except for the constant echoing purring of the zombies. She picked up HopeKiller and limped forward, half-eaten energy bar forgotten behind her, the precious bottle of water spilling out on the parking garage's concrete floor. The pain in her foot made her wince with every step—she could only put it down for the tiniest instant without searing pain shooting up her leg, which made walking by herself an exhausting effort. Why did I let him go, she thought, continuing to limp forward, trying to see where Aaron and her brother had gone—
"AAAHUUUAAAAOOOOOOOO!"
Howling. More than one, Imogen thought, trying to limp forward faster without any success. She couldn't see anything, just the zombies Aaron had crippled, their ruined arms flopping uselessly. Through there, she thought, that's where he pointed—
"AIIIIIIIIAAAAA—"
The sudden, high scream was cut off, then started again, even more panicked and terrified than before, then suddenly it increased in both volume and urgency, echoing through the parking garage before cutting off once more, forever.
Imogen struggled forward, her breathing heavy and wheezing, trying to force her useless leg to work, to stop hurting—without result. It was aching more than ever now, whether she was putting weight on it or not—
"IMOGEN!"
She could see now, behind one of the thick square supports crowding the garage, through an area almost empty of cars—but filled with zombies. Zack was crouched on top of a white van, zombies on all sides, clawing up at him, some of the taller ones managing to scrape against his overalls or shoes—and the pushing of the zombies was rocking the van, he was keeping his balance but just barely, and thank god he's so small, Imogen thought, as she continued to limp forward, if he was any bigger they would've already grabbed him—
—and there was Aaron, or what was left of him, a dozen zombies all fighting over his remains, the speed with which they were tearing him apart both sickening and shocking—
—and she was still shambling forwards—
—and HopeKiller was cool in her hands—
—and she was standing on a tatami mat floor, the subtle smell of seagrass filling her head, and her stance was good, she'd never had problems with that, not even starting out, and everything was slow and quiet, that liquid non-time of battle, of one-to-one combat—
—they step here—
—you strike there—
The first zombie fell before Imogen, both arms crippled, and already she was moving forward, moving past, slowly but surely, I have no need for rapidity of movement, Imogen thought, her mind an untroubled lake, for my quickness is in my arms.
There was another in front of her—three, actually, but that's a lie, Imogen thought, that's an illusion, there is only myself and my opponent, all else is a distraction, unnecessary, I don't need to run from these things, I don't need to avoid them, all I need to do ...
Weaknesses.
That's what I must exploit, Imogen thought, as she faced her opponent. Never mind their strengths. Never mind the indestructibility of my enemy. Never mind that they cannot be killed. I cannot stop them from moving; that does not mean that I cannot win.
One: Predictability.
They hesitate before they attack; they're blind and so before they strike they must guess at where I am. Movement. Vibration. They're listening, but so am I. They're feeling, but so am I. What aren't they doing?
Thinking.
But I am.
Two: Unfocused.
So easily distracted, by loud noises or movement—
—Imogen slammed the blunt end of her bat on the ground, far to her left—
—or both.
"Three," Imogen murmured, her gaze fixed on the zombie as it hesitated, and she brought HopeKiller up in a slashing swipe that opened the tight muscles of its calf. Before the zombie could fall forward Imogen pushed it away, HopeKiller's shard slicing into its belly, and she pulled her weapon free as it collapsed backwards.
Something new filled Imogen, something cold and clean, and as she gazed down at her defeated opponent, giving it a moment of respect that it did not deserve, she spoke:
"You're far too tense."
There were others around her; the closest became her focus. Another hard thump against the ground, another slice against its leg, still it could claw, Imogen knew, but already I am moving; already I am away.
The pain in her leg came back and she was aware that six zombies lay crippled behind her, crawling towards her—but I am moving forward, Imogen thought, I am the tortoise that defeats the arrow; by the time it is where I was, there I no longer stand.
A pause, and a breath, and another enemy; keep moving forward.
This was once a person. (The tiniest of pauses; no immediate threat.) No longer. (Such a small step forward, such a minute adjustment of stance.) There's no way back. (HopeKiller tore through ligament and tendon and muscle.) Only moving forward. (And stop, and choose, and focus on the next.) And when you're finished? (But you can't be finished, not yet.) Then there's only a tidying of the world. (The world is me; the world is you.)
"Imogen ..."
"Just a little longer." Imogen's voice was flat. She sliced through the grasping arm of a crawler, and it grasped no more. "I'm almost finished."
There were a dozen zombies still feeding on Aaron's remains, but they showed no interest in Imogen. Of the others surrounding the van two remained standing, both with damaged legs; far too slow to
be a threat. Several still crawled, but even limping Imogen could easily outpace them.
Two crawlers lay in wait around the front of the van. Imogen shuffled towards them, waited for them to reach for her, and then she sliced open their wrists.
Perfection.
Zack slid easily down the front of the van, Aaron's key still clutched tight in his hand.
SOOPAH.
Imogen refused his offer to help her walk the dozen or so metres to the vehicle. Instead she pointed at it, and after a second he understood, and he ran forward to unlock it, and he clambered inside.
There were more zombies in the parking garage. Of course there were. To Imogen's left was a large mob, attracted by the howling of the zombies she had crippled (not all of them had howled; she didn't know why). To the right were scattered groups of threes and fours.
Aaron's car was an SUV, blue and high and long. Getting in was a chore, and by the time Imogen had settled herself and locked the doors and with great care and focus nestled HopeKiller in between the driver and passenger seats there were four zombies outside, scratching at the doors and the windows. Imogen took the key from Zack, and slid it into the ignition, and turned it, and then turned it some more, and the car rumbled into life.
Hanging from the rear-view mirror was a blue hedgehog. Imogen stared at it, then placed her hands on the steering wheel. It felt warm and comfortable.
Zack was looking at her. Imogen swallowed, and then she spoke, quietly and calmly:
"I have no idea how to drive."
"It's easy!" Zack said—he was trying to look at Imogen but his eyes kept going back to the zombies around the car—half a dozen now. "Just, um, left pedal is go and right is stop! Right?"
"There are three pedals down here."
"Just ... just try the left one!"
"I can only use my left foot."
"Just try!"
Imogen pushed the left pedal.
The car entirely failed to burst forward and knock down the zombies surrounding it.
"Right pedal?"
Imogen's sense of calm and safety was fading. She could feel cold panic rising inside her. She pushed down on the middle pedal, and the car's engine revved sharply—but nothing else happened.
"Oh, the gear! Gears? Gear? I think it's this stick," Zack said, wrenching at it. There was a hideous graunching sound, and he released the gearstick with a horrified gasp.
"Clutch," Imogen muttered. "Clutch, right? This one." She awkwardly pushed down the rightmost pedal, and then managed to wrestle the gearstick to '1'.
"One seems like a good place to start," Zack said. He glanced out again—more than a dozen zombies now surrounded the car, and it rocked gently as they pushed against it. One was at the front, its bone claws scraping against the hood as if it was trying to climb onto the bonnet. "Um, try the—"
The car suddenly lurched forward and to the right—Imogen gasped as she realised she was leaning on the steering wheel and let everything go, but not before there was a 'thu-thump' from the front as the zombie there disappeared beneath. This was followed by a scratching from below, as it continued to claw at the car.
Imogen took a deep, shaky breath. I just crippled twenty zombies using nothing but a baseball bat with a scrap of modern art bolted to the end, why is this so much scarier?
Because I'm good at fighting zombies.
After another breath, Imogen took the steering wheel firmly in her hands, and she tentatively pushed at the middle pedal. The car jumped forward, then settled to a crawl as Imogen eased off the pressure.
"You're doing it! You're driving, Imogen!" Zack was grinning at her, somewhat manically, and he waved to the zombies as they (slowly) left them behind. "So long, suckers!"
Imogen pushed a little harder on the accelerator, and they picked up speed as they drove through the garage. At first Imogen aimed for the zombies in her way, but the way they jolted the car then disappeared beneath brought little satisfaction.
"Um," Zack said, as Imogen carefully turned a corner, accelerating in fits and starts then drawing to a stop. "Um, were you ... oh. Is that the exit?"
Imogen nodded. It was ahead, down a clear stretch. Clear apart from the dozen or so zombies crowding it—with dozens more to the left and right.
"Imogen?"
Imogen tore her eyes away from the distant exit to look at her brother.
"This isn't as fun as I thought it'd be. Running over zombies and stuff."
Imogen stared at Zack.
"Maybe we should put our seatbelts on," she said, after a second. Zack nodded and hurriedly went to do his up. Imogen put hers on with more measured care, her hands shaking.
Both brother and sister looked forward. For several seconds there was silence in the car.
"Um. Were you ... I mean, did you ..." Zack frowned as he attempted to express himself, then he looked up at Imogen, his young face serious. "Aaron died."
Imogen nodded, still staring straight ahead. "Yes, he did. He very definitely died."
"Um—"
"I'd probably be more traumatised if it hadn't been so completely inevitable."
Zack was frowning. "They ate—"
"They ate him, I know. That's what zombies do. They eat people. Or bite them or scratch them and turn them into more zombies." Imogen did look at Zack now, her pale blue eyes serious. "I hate zombies."
"Me too," Zack said, his voice shaking. "I really hate them."
Imogen nodded, then looked forward again, her hands tight on the wheel.
"He ... he WAS crazy, right? Aaron, I mean."
Imogen breathed out. "Yes," she said. "He was certainly crazy."
The accelerator slammed against the floor. With a great lurch the car leapt forward, wheels skidding against concrete, nearly scraping against the parked cars to the left before Imogen wrenched it right again. The closest zombie swiped at the car as it passed, almost losing an arm for the attempt, and the next was spun aside, and the one after that was caught on the front for two horrible seconds before slipping under with a heavy thump.
Imogen's hands were tight on the wheel, and when she dared to look at the speedometer it said fifty, but that couldn't be right, that had to be a mistake because they were going at least two hundred—
The shutter grew too big too fast, the black of it filling Imogen's eyes, and then her hands were torn from the wheel and a sound like the world ending filled her head and everything went white, and there was another crash and the world was flipped on its side except Imogen's stomach hadn't been informed, and there was a sudden stark stillness and then nothing.
Here's what just happened. The car hit the barrier at approximately fifty-six kilometres per hour. The barrier was not designed to withstand impacts; it was designed to fragment upon impact. However, the pressure upon the front of the car at the moment of impact was enough for it to register a 'crash'.
Operating according to the instructions imprinted in its simple electronic brain, the car followed 'crash' protocol and deployed its airbags; driver and passenger side.
Thus, 'whiteness'.
The road beyond the barrier only went for three point four metres before terminating in a sharp right hand turn and a solid concrete wall. At this point the car was travelling forwards at approximately fifty-one kilometres per hour, and it was at this speed that it impacted against the concrete wall.
In accordance with Newton's third law of motion (in brief; to every action there is always opposed an equal reaction), the static wall exerted a force upon the car equal to its mass multiplied by its acceleration, as defined by Newton's second law of motion; the acceleration produced by a particular force acting on a body is directly proportional—
Yes, fine, thank you brain, Imogen thought, as she pushed the rapidly deflating airbag away from her face. None of that explains this horrible acrid smell.
From Imogen's brain: ...
"Zack?"
"I'm okay," came Zack's muffled voice.
"Don't open your door. Wai
t for me to do it."
"Okay."
Reaching tentatively for HopeKiller, aware suddenly that the edges of its razor-sharp shard were covered in zombie blood, and that cutting herself on it would probably be just as bad as being scratched by an actual zombie, Imogen was relieved to grasp solid wood rather than infected metal. She tugged it out, then tried to open her door—the moment of panic she felt turned to slightly embarrassed relief as she realised the reason it wasn't opening was that it was still locked.
She didn't bother with even a glance at the front of the car. The engine had stopped and in any case she had absolutely no desire to get behind the wheel of any vehicle ever again. Instead she looked back, inside the garage, at the few dozen zombies already shuffling towards freedom. As she made her way around the car Imogen wondered if they knew, if they realised that lurching through the broken barrier would lead them to the surface, then she chastised herself for being stupid—of course they don't know. They're zombies. 'Mindless' doesn't even begin to describe them. They can function without a head, that should tell you something. They're more like cockroaches than humans.
Zack's door didn't open, not until he'd unlocked it, and then he tumbled out into Imogen's arms. She let him squeeze her for a few seconds before pushing him back. Without speaking he assumed his position as her support, and together they limped away from the car and the broken barrier and the purring zombies, making their slow way up towards the surface.
The sunset was glorious. Thin, high, wispy clouds caught the last of the day's light, bursting into deep orange flame wherever they were touched. Beyond the clouds the sky had lightened to a calm blue-grey, a perfect reflection of the ocean's waters; smooth and untroubled.
Zack and Imogen were in no position to appreciate any of this, concerned as they were with getting through the park outside the Phoenix Convention Centre. It was easier to avoid zombies out in the open, but there were few working lights in the park and in the dimness of twilight it could be dangerously difficult to make them out—especially the crawlers.