Lisa looked at the petite, sandy-haired girl who’d once been her fellow captive and felt a deep surge of respect well up within her breast. It was the first time Michelle had ever stood up for anything, and it made Lisa proud to be her friend.
“I say let them do it,” Lisa said, prompting a shy smile from Michelle.
Julianne looked around her and shrugged. “It’s a thought, guys. If they take up the slack, we can get this place fixed up once and for all.”
Rumbles of assent rose until Max stood up. “It’s settled then. Michelle, Nombali, and the children will run the camp while the rest of us get to work on the defenses.”
After a few more minutes of back and forth, it was decided that Jonathan and Dr. Lange would remain in the infirmary while Hannah would join Michelle, Nombali, and the kids. As the only medical personnel, they couldn’t be risked. Dave, however, opted to participate in the repairs as would everybody else not engaged in raiding.
With the meeting adjourned, Lisa strode outside with a feeling of relief. The crushing weight of responsibility on her shoulders had lessened. Finally, someone had listened to her. Now we can get things done, at last.
Chapter 7 - Michael
Michael woke with a start in the cold grey hours of dawn. He blinked several times while he tried to regain his bearings. A quick glance around told him he was lying in the backseat of a car. His cheek was pressed to its grainy brown material, and a thin blanket covered his length.
The car’s windows were fogged up and empty, the interior dead silent. He shifted his weight and winced; each joint was locked in place by the long hours of sleep. Faint images lingered from the dreams that haunted him. Glimpses of Mpho’s dark eyes and full lips mocked him.
His gaze locked onto the bundle of cloth in his fist. A crimson scarf. He raised it to his nose and breathed in her scent. It was faint, but there, and all he had left of her. Mpho.
After a moment, he shook off the memories, concentrating instead on the icy knot of hatred inside his breast.
Hiran.
That was the only name that mattered to him now.
With a grunt, Michael sat upright and got his feet underneath him. A quick check confirmed everything was in place, and he took a moment to stretch his spine and work the kinks out of his neck.
He was interrupted by the groans of a zombie, and next moment, it had its face glued to the window. Streamers of flesh hung from its cheeks, and one eye was missing.
“Oh, fuck off, will you?” he muttered, his patience with all things undead worn away.
The infected woman sped up her efforts and clawed at the clear glass, smearing it with grime. He ignored her antics and gathered up his things instead, before packing it into his backpack. Knife in hand, he exited the car and waited for the zombie lady to twig onto his re-appearance. “Over here.”
She paused mid-groan before attempting to claw her way across the roof. He rolled his eyes and sighed. “God, you’re stupid. Around the car.”
Finally, she caught on and stumbled toward him, rasping her hunger like a broken record. Impatient to get going, Michael kicked her in the knee and broke the joint. She fell to her face, and he ended her struggles with a quick stab to the back of the head.
After a quick look around for danger, he donned fresh socks, brushed his teeth, and made a meal of water and a protein bar. A few minutes later, he was on the road again, walking to the next town. The car he’d slept in was nothing more than a rusting hulk, its battery long dead, and he left it behind without a second glance.
The morning passed swiftly as he settled into a ground-eating jog. His breath eased in and out of his lungs at an even pace that matched his heartbeat. Running was a favorite pastime of his, one he’d always enjoyed for the peace it afforded him.
When he ran, he could forget about his troubles, forget about Valerie and Mpho. He could focus on the physical. On the smooth rhythm of his limbs and the sound of his feet on the asphalt. It allowed his brain to switch off for a brief, but merciful, period.
On either side, the winter landscape streamed past, a monotonous blur of beige, brown, and grey. An occasional stunted tree reached for the sky with clawed branches, and termite mounds stood guard like silent sentinels.
In the distance, hills rose above the ground interspersed with rocky outcrops. The occasional cell tower reminded one of the past while thick brush lined the overhangs. Michael had the brief thought that some of those towering hills would make for a safe base but soon dismissed it as irrelevant to his current situation.
Around noon, he paused to take a break and built a small fire with brush and twigs. From his pack, he filled a metal cup with water and boiled it on a flat rock. Once it was hot, he dumped in a tea bag and let it steep while he munched on a few apples he’d plucked from a tree. They were small and sour, having grown far too late in the season, but he didn’t care. His body needed nutrition, and that’s all that mattered.
As Michael sipped his tea, he reflected on the past few days. Following Hiran’s trail had proved more difficult than he’d thought it would. First, he’d returned to Ke Tau’s hideout to look for clues.
There were none.
All he found were new reasons to hate the man and his followers. Although the bodies of the women and children had been removed and cremated, the evidence of the massacre remained. Splashes of dried blood covered the floors. Slash marks adorned the painted walls where knives and machetes had missed their victims and hit concrete instead. A metallic tang hung in the air, overlaid by the sweet stench of rot.
The place was also a hub for the undead, and the damned things nearly swarmed him while he was there. He barely got out with his skin intact and moved on with alacrity.
From there on, he’d searched the rest of town, though he found precious little to point him in the right direction. Hiran and his men had disappeared into the night like the murdering thieves they were.
Finally, he’d moved on to the next town, and then the next, using what resources he could find along the way to survive. He slept in alleyways and old cars, abandoned buildings and garden sheds with only a thin blanket and bedroll for warmth. Once, he even spent the night in a tree. That was the most uncomfortable he’d ever been.
When he was able to, he bathed and washed his clothes in streams. The rest of the time he smelled, though he always took care of his feet. He ate what he could find or kill. Even rats and pigeons.
The infected were a nuisance. The things seemed to be more active than he remembered them being, and they wandered around in a perpetual search for food. He killed them when he had to, avoided them when he couldn’t, and never once let go of his end goal: find and kill Hiran. A week passed in this fashion, then two. He never stopped looking.
In Hennenman, he found a clue. Several, in fact. The crucified bodies of people nailed to the doors of their hideouts. From there, he’d followed the trail to a farmhouse, and after that, to a slew of other small communities. Each time, he found more unfortunates forced to die in the same fashion. As Michael investigated the scenes, he came to certain conclusions.
Like any tyrant, Hiran ruled through fear. As long as his men feared him, they’d obey him. Toss in the occasional reward for following him and Hiran had it made. Even though he was in no way religious, killing his victims through crucifixion delivered a message. An unequivocal message. One designed to strike fear into the hearts of anyone who either followed or opposed him.
It was apparent to Michael that while Ke Tau had been a shrewd and violent man, Hiran was a far more dangerous adversary.
“It doesn’t matter. His blood runs just as sweetly as anybody else’s,” Michael muttered under his breath.
He was now nearing Brandfort, a tiny town not far from Bloemfontein which was where Hiran had gone if his current estimate was correct.
The town appeared in the distance, and Michael slowed to a walk. He approached with caution, one hand resting on his rifle while the other gripped his knife.
The sun was h
igh by now, and the midday heat was pleasant after the morning chill. The pockmarked road led between two rows of buildings, worn and dilapidated after more than a year without any upkeep.
He saw no movement and spotted no life except for pigeons roosting in the eaves and a stray cat that took off the moment it saw him. Not even the usual undead candidates came out to greet him. It felt like a ghost town.
Empty windows and shop fronts seemed to stare at the street with bland indifference. Clogged gutters overflowed onto the pavements to join the garbage rotting to mush in alleys and corners. Weeds poked through the cracks in the concrete, and the road was filled with growing holes and trenches.
It was nothing he wasn’t used to, and he wondered how long it would take until nothing remained at all. Mankind’s time on earth had been brief, and it seemed their legacy would be even more fleeting.
After the previous small towns, Michael had a fair inkling of what to expect from Hiran and was proven right when he reached an open square between a bunch of shops and saw a familiar sight.
As before, Hiran had ordered his men to clear and secure a space for their comfort and safety. They’d eradicated any undead in the vicinity, then dumped their corpses in a heap where they lay rotting like so much discarded rubbish.
Unlike the other places he’d found, this one was fresh. The bodies were only a few days old. Along the way, he’d caught up to Hiran, and now he was sure he was close.
Parked cars were used to block off any open gaps between buildings and secure all possible approaches while empty metal drums provided warmth once fires were kindled inside. The surrounding shops were looted for anything useful, and the town searched for survivors. With their camp set up and their bellies filled, the men’s thoughts soon turned to entertainment. In this, they were led by their sadistic leader, a man whose soul was blacker than the night.
Bitter bile rose in Michael’s throat when he spotted their first victim, a young woman lying face down on the tar and wearing no clothes. Bruises mottled her skin, and dried blood pooled around her slit throat.
A man hung from a lamppost; his belly yawned open, and maggots crawled through the innards lying at his feet. Three more were nailed to shop doors, their faces twisted into agonizing expressions. Another girl lay against the wall where she’d crawled to die, a trail of blood marking her passage. She was barely more than a child.
Michael closed his eyes and turned away. How many? How many more would die at the hands of Hiran and his men? How many more innocents would suffer a horrifying death while such scum walked the earth?
His hand found the necklace riding in his pocket. Mpho’s gold cross. He gripped it with one hand and repeated his vow. I’m coming for you, Hiran. Mark my words. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll rip the beating heart from your chest and squash it beneath my heel.
Chapter 8 - Hiran
Hiran sucked hard on the cigarette dangling between his fingers. He stepped over the sprawled limbs of a corpse and danced away from the wriggling fingers of another body, this one still living.
“George,” he barked, nodding toward the man attempting to crawl away from the light.
George walked over with casual strides, a sneer hovering on his lips. He reached the man Hiran had pointed out and kneeled beside him. With a violent twist of his hands, he snapped the man’s neck, ending his futile struggles before straightening up again.
Hiran nodded. “Good, good. You did well, George. Better than I ever expected.”
“Thank you, Boss. It was easy. These people were like sheep. Too trusting.”
“Too trusting? Or were you too devious? The wolf hidden among the flock?” Hiran asked as he turned in a slow circle, surveying the scene.
Where once a community had thrived, now lay a wasteland of death and destruction. Flames flickered where buildings and vehicles had been set alight, casting the hill in a deep orange glow.
Smoke curled upward from the bones of a charred tent, its occupant caught beneath the burning canvas before he or she could escape. Bodies lay strewn about in the various attitudes of death, more than Hiran would’ve thought possible.
The Naval Hill Refuge had been strong with a fighting force that numbered in the dozens. It had to be to clean up a city the size of Bloemfontein and clear it of the dead, yet he wondered how they’d managed.
A knot of crying woman and children huddled in a corner, guarded by two of his men. Most still wore their pajamas, testament to their utter unpreparedness for what befell them.
The takeover had been a complete success, coordinated perfectly from within and without through a system of secret messages passed to and fro every night. Hiran struck at midnight after George poisoned the guards with contaminated drink. They died in agony, lying in puddles of their own vomit and excrement.
With the place wide open, it was an easy matter to sneak in and strike while the inhabitants slept unawares. Even the hunting dogs had died without uttering a single howl, struck down in a welter of blood by George who’d won their trust with treats and affection.
Hiran allowed himself a satisfied smile. “Have the gates been secured?”
“Yes, Boss, and the fence has been checked. We’ll be safe for the night, at least.”
“Excellent, but double the guard, nonetheless.”
“Will do, Boss.”
“Where’s the leader?” Hiran asked. “I trust you kept him alive?”
“I did. She’s over here.”
Hiran’s eyes widened. “She?”
“Yes. Their leader is a woman,” George replied.
“That’s interesting,” Hiran replied. “She must be strong.”
George snorted. “She was their weakness. No woman should be a leader. They are in this world to bear children and serve us. No more.”
Hiran resisted the urge to roll his eyes. While his second-in-command was old school, Hiran didn’t share his sentiments. Not completely. While some women were weak, it was true, he’d also met plenty in his lifetime who were not.
“Let me give you a little advice, George,” he said as they walked across the packed earth.
“Yes, Boss?”
“Never underestimate a woman. You’ll wake up one night with a knife sticking out of your guts and blood running down your chest. Mark my words.”
“Boss?” George eyed him with disbelief.
“It’s true, George. Just ask my father.”
By then they’d reached their destination, and George pointed at one of two kneeling figures. “This is her. Their leader. They call her Agatha.”
Hiran eyed the woman before him, studying her features. She was tall and slender, but sturdy, her shoulders broad. Her eyes were as black as night, and her hair formed a perfect halo around her head, an afro of tight black curls. Her lips were twisted with derision, and he could almost feel the hatred radiating from her body.
He whistled. “Well, what do we have here? You’re the leader of this fine establishment? Or should I say were the leader?”
Her eyes narrowed to slits, and she stressed the words. “I am the leader.”
“I find that surprising. Then again, your camp did just fold like a cheap game of cards, so maybe not so surprising,” he taunted.
Her cheeks flamed. “Your men lied to me. They betrayed me.”
“Of course. That’s the whole point of deceit.” He tapped his chin with one finger. “I’m surprised you’ve lasted this long if you can’t even spot a spy or two.”
“Why?” she asked. “Why do it? Why destroy us? You could have joined us. We could’ve fought as one, eradicated the undead from all corners of the earth.”
“I’m not much of a joiner,” Hiran said. “Besides, why join when I can simply take?”
“Please, my son. Have mercy on these people,” the second kneeling figure pleaded, shuffling forward into the light.
Agatha shook her head. “Stay out of this, Father. Please.”
“I cannot. Surely, these people can be reasoned wit
h.”
Hiran eyed the man with interest, noting the dog collar around his neck. He noted the man’s soft, pudgy appearance and watery eyes. “A priest? That explains all the ‘pure of heart’ bullshit.”
“Please, my son. Listen to―”
“I’m not your son, and I can’t be reasoned with,” Hiran interrupted, his lip curling with disdain. “Tell me something, priest. Have you once dirtied your hands with the blood of the infected, or have all these other people been protecting your neck thus far?”
The priest stuttered. “As a man of God, I cannot kill.”
“Not even to save yourself?”
“N…no.”
“I’ve heard enough,” Hiran said. “George, lock him up with the rest of the surviving men. I’ll deal with him tomorrow.”
“You heard the Boss.” George gestured at two of his men waiting nearby, and they stepped forward to drag the priest away. He protested weakly, and they jerked him to his feet with little regard for his person.
Agatha gasped. “You can’t do this. He’s a priest!”
Hiran snorted. “Try again.”
“Tell your men to let him go, you coward. Take me instead.”
“I already have you,” Hiran pointed out.
“Then face me like a man,” she cried, struggling against her bonds. “Fight me.”
Hiran laughed. “Why should I? You’re no man. You’re brave, though. I’ll give you that.”
“You stinking jackal.”
“Now, now. There’s no need for that. We can talk like two civilized people, can’t we?”
She gasped. “Civilized? You call this slaughter civilized?”
He shrugged. “You have a point, but there’s no need for such negativity. Consider this a hostile takeover. A change of management, shall we say.”
She sputtered. “What? Are you insane?”
“Perhaps. Some might think so. I prefer the word ruthless,” Hiran said, before switching direction. “Tell me. How did you and your pathetic priest manage to clear an entire city of the dead?”
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