It was a young guy, college age, like himself, about twenty-one or so. They shared the same build: tall, thin, and wiry. Mason was six-foot-two. This guy was maybe slightly shorter, about six-foot-one. But there the comparison stopped. This guy had shaggy golden-blond hair. Mason’s own hair was short, straight, and black. He was due for a haircut. Mason checked Blondie’s black eyes. This guy wasn’t dead–just knocked out.
His patient’s breathing was shallow, but Mason found a steady pulse at Blondie’s wrist and neck. He quickly checked him over for any sign of serious injury: bleeding wounds, broken bones, any major trauma. There could still be internal injuries that he might not notice right away. Mason struggled to drag Blondie to a safe, dry place, make him comfortable, and elevate his feet.
There was something very odd about the guy, however. At first Mason’s dazed, shivering mind couldn’t place it. Faded navy hoodie, black T-shirt, jeans. No phone, wallet, or ID–but maybe Blondie hadn’t been carrying them at the time all of this happened…whatever all of this was.
His boots.
That was it, exactly.
Blondie had him some strange leather boots. Mason pulled up one pant leg to examine them closer.
The boots were, in fact, extremely odd. Hand-tooled, black leather boots with intricate images of writhing people and monsters fighting to the death. Most guys would not wear such flashy boots on campus, or anywhere for that matter. Even his best friend David, the medieval buff, didn’t have such boots. Although Dave did own several other pairs of period-style boots, just as Mason himself had several pairs of western-style boots for his six-gun competitions.
All right, perhaps Blondie’s boots weren’t that weird, but they still seemed out of place somehow, and they looked very expensive. Maybe the guy was a medieval nut like Dave, or some kind of gamer geek, or super, LOTR fanboy.
Being soaked to the skin on an early April morning in South Bend, Indiana, was not the greatest situation for either of them. Being cold and afraid was a double whammy. And if Mason continued to shiver and suffer in the nippy air, then he was certain that his new friend Blondie would also.
For just a moment, as he stood there in his own wet underwear, gray cotton sweatpants, navy long-sleeved T-shirt, and bare feet, Mason seriously considered taking Blondie’s hoodie and boots for himself. But that wouldn’t be right. Wet cotton didn’t keep anyone that warm, in any case. And those odd boots were just…freaky.
He suddenly spotted and chased after a section of burgundy window curtain that tumbled past on the wind. At least he could cover up with that. It sure looked thick and dry. He needed anything to stay warm with and get warmer. Pride wasn’t even a consideration at that point.
By the time he returned with his new curtain wrapped nicely around his shoulders, Blondie was sitting up on a shattered dresser. He held his head bent down into both hands and groaned. He trembled with cold.
Mason sighed, walked up, and reluctantly wrapped the warm curtain around Blondie’s shoulders and tucked it in around him. Blondie tried to look up at him with a startled expression, but he was still too weak and too cold to do even that very quickly.
Blondie continued to shiver, and tugged the warm curtain even tighter around him.
“You okay, dude?” Mason asked. “What’s your name?”
Blondie’s mouth fell open; he blinked and then shook his head. “Ahh…I feel terrible. I don’t know. I can’t…remember anything.”
“Great, you must have hit your head,” Mason muttered. “I find one other guy, and he’s got amnesia!”
“What’s that?”
“It means you can’t remember anything–your past, who you are. I checked you for a wallet. Nada. No phone, either.”
“What’s a wallet…what’s a phone?”
“Skip it for now. You don’t have them. Just take it easy, recover your strength, and try to remember something. My name’s Mason. Mason Tyler. Until you remember or we find out who you are, I’m gonna call you Blondie.”
“Why?”
Mason pointed. “You’ve got blond hair, and you just look like a Blondie to me.”
Blondie gasped and blinked, still in clearly in disbelief. “I’m Blondie?”
“Yep. Don’t wear it out.”
“Huh, why would I do that?”
Mason tilted his head, unable to wait any longer. “Nice boots, dude. You a gamer geek, an Otaku?”
“Your words are strange. What are boots?”
Mason frowned. This guy had it bad; he didn’t know anything. “Skip that, too, I guess.”
Noises came from one of the houses nearby. It sounded like something inside had been knocked over or had fallen. Everything else was relatively quiet around them, so the noise nearby was quite alarming.
Mason and Blondie both stared at the house with the noises inside, for a moment, unable to move.
What now?
An old man in his late sixties staggered out the front door and left it open behind him. Both Mason and Blondie breathed a sigh of relief.
But the old guy did have a shiny Colt revolver tucked in the elastic belt of his blue and green flannel pajamas and a dark, bloody golf club clutched in one hand–some kind of iron.
And the dark blood was a bit off-putting, too.
The old guy stumbled toward them, stammering and muttering as if he were also in shock. “G-g-guns don’t work. Nothing’s working. You have to fight the monsters hand-to-hand.”
Now all three of them were confused.
Mason at least went over to help the old guy, who kept staring straight ahead. But he offered Mason his trembling, wrinkled hand.
“Howard Kazinsky,” he muttered.
“Mason Tyler; my friends call me Mace. Do you know what’s going on, Howard?” He walked Howard over and sat him down next to Blondie on the toppled dresser.
“I dunno,” Howard said. “I woke up and everything was strange. Then the monsters appeared and started breaking windows, setting fires, and attacking and killing people. My dog was barking like crazy. I clubbed one of the smaller monsters in the head a few times with my nine iron.”
Mason reached over calmly and pulled the loaded Colt Python revolver out of Howard’s waistband and checked it. A .357 magnum, all six rounds live, none fired. “This is a nice piece,” Mason said, well-versed in firearms. “Why didn’t you shoot that monster with it? You didn’t have time?”
“I tried. I keep telling you, kid. Guns don’t work. No electricity. The cars don’t work anymore, either. Nothing works. I’m lucky I had this golf club, or that thing would have carved me up like a turkey. I saw more of those creatures coming, so I ran out the back door and got away. My neighbors weren’t so lucky. I could hear them screaming as I ran.”
The old guy had to be off his rocker. Perhaps he wasn’t just in shock. Maybe he suffered from dementia, Alzheimer’s, or some such.
But what if Howard was telling the truth?
Come to think of it, Mason didn’t hear any cars, and no sirens or fire trucks–or gunshots. If monsters were attacking people, there would certainly be gunshots.
He lifted the revolver in the air and pulled the trigger.
Click.
He tried to fire all six shots, but the action kept clicking. He examined the firing pin and then the rounds themselves. Everything looked fine. Why wouldn’t the bullets go off? He put the Colt back down next to Howard.
The light grew slightly in the distant sky. A ruined bed lay in the water just at the edge of the lake, off to one side.
It was Mason’s bed.
Two of his blankets were wool. Even wet, they’d still be warm. Mason and his friends were shivering. He retrieved his blankets and did his best to wring them dry before spreading them out on the relatively dry ground. The mattress and shattered box frame and wooden bed frame were obviously ruined.
Then he spotted his black leather, double-holster, quick-draw rig, still hanging on the splintered post of the crushed headboard. His .36 caliber Spille
r & Burr black powder revolvers were still strapped down in his custom holsters. He had cleaned and reloaded them the night before and hung them on his bedpost. His first instinct was to get them out of the water.
Of course, they were waterlogged. But if he could retrieve his gearbox from the lake and get to his sealed containers, he could reload them. He currently didn’t have much else to do. His weakened, disoriented friends weren’t going anywhere, and they seemed relatively safe where they were.
First he retrieved his rig and the Spillers. He started everything drying on the blankets in the crisp early morning air.
The next part would be the hardest, but there was nothing for it.
Mason had to go back under that cold water and retrieve his gear box. He was still half-soaked and shivering as it was. But if he was going to do it, he needed to do it now, before he grew weaker or changed his mind.
Once all that was accomplished, he definitely needed to find some warm, dry clothing for himself and his new friends.
For being half-frozen and scared almost witless, he commended himself for at least staying practical. The main thing was not to freeze up, or curl up in a ball of fear and do nothing. Keep moving, keep busy doing things.
If he could load his guns up and get them working, then he wouldn’t feel so scared and defenseless.
Mason shucked off his damp T-shirt and sweat pants, spreading them out next to the wool blankets. His clothes were half dry by now. No sense getting them soaked again.
He went into the water in nothing but his boxers, rubbing his arms, wincing, his teeth chattering as he cursed. He took a deep breath and dove under the lake’s surface near the same point he had stumbled out.
The sky was a bit lighter above him, but it still took him time to find the gear box underwater, mostly by feel.
He came up for a few breaths of air as needed, and went back down.
He grabbed the rope handle of the antique gun box and dragged it toward the edge of the lake. Mason had to repeat the process four times before he could keep his head above water, and then finally tug the heavy box out of the lake.
He rolled onto one of the wet blankets, shivering and recovering.
Once he could move again, he took his wet boxers off, dried off with the other damp blanket, and put his damp clothes back on. It was better than nothing.
He opened the latch on the crate. Of course, everything inside was wet, but his gunpowders and some of his gear were in sealed containers. He had several other black powder, single-action pistols of various types and sizes. Mason spread his arsenal out to dry on the blankets.
He retrieved more powder and shot, more bullet-making supplies, and two gems: his 1858-style carbine, and his Howdah Hunter, 20-gauge, double-barreled, black powder shotgun pistol.
Then he spotted his Civil War replica cavalry saber, emptied the water out of the scabbard, and strapped it to his side for good measure. If Howard wasn’t delusional, and there were monsters about, the saber would help.
He wasn’t as good with swords as his good buddy, David Pritchard, the medieval maven. But Mason had practiced fencing with the saber enough to know how to handle the weapon–even on horseback.
When Mason checked on his friends, Howard and Blondie were slumped against each other and the dresser with the curtain pulled around them. The buggers were sleeping quite pleasantly.
Lucky bastards.
He put a plumed, black cavalry hat with braids on Blondie’s head. It just worked somehow.
All three of them jumped when something else crashed inside another house up the dark street, making a huge racket.
Mason studied his two shivering comrades. Neither of them looked up to doing much of anything. “You two guys stay here and look after each other. I’m going to go check out that noise. It might be someone else who needs help. They might be hurt.” He drew his saber and clutched it tight in his right hand.
Keep busy, keep moving. Don’t let the fear take hold.
Mason picked his way over to the house quietly. It was just a regular old brownstone from the forties or so.
When he got close enough, he saw that the front door to the house stood half open. Not a good sign. He slipped in, trying to be quiet, fearful of broken glass with his bare feet.
He remained still and listened for a while. Nothing seemed to move or make noise. Perhaps something had just fallen down.
It took him a few minutes more to work up the gumption to actually go further inside.
Once he was already in the house, he checked for any other survivors or victims.
Mason went through some dressers and closets. He felt some relief at finding extra blankets, dry clothing, hats, and three jackets. He even found socks and tennis shoes for him and Howard. The man of the house apparently had feet that were only half a size larger than Mason’s. That was much better than bare feet.
Something else might kill them, but they weren’t going to freeze to death.
He wrapped his bounty up in a blanket and hauled it all back out to his friends like a jolly burglar. Outside, his new friends–those bums–were sleeping again.
Once Howard and Blondie were awake, they all changed into dry clothing and felt much better and warmer with their borrowed jackets, baseball caps, and shoes and socks on.
Mason went down to the lake edge to check on his drying gear. He strapped on his double holster rig and took up his Spiller & Burrs, twirling them deftly in his hands without thinking. Now he could reload them and see if they worked.
He called back to his friends. “Once it gets light out, we’ll walk out of here and see what’s happened to the rest of the city.”
“Mace!” Howard shouted, his voice shaking with fear.
Howard and Blondie retreated toward him and the edge of the lake. Howard clutched his bloodstained golf club. Blondie ran up beside Mason and drew the saber and held it out in front of himself without even asking.
Both of them were shaking so bad they could hardly stand.
From out of the trees, a horde of about forty of Howard’s monsters emerged from the trees, as big as life.
Monsters. That was the only way to describe them. Humanoid monsters of all sizes, some hairy, some furry, some with scales. Various, snarling, monster faces. Some wore pieces of rusty armor or battered helmets, and carried clubs, jagged axes, swords, and spears.
The horde spotted the three humans and charged, shrieking and roaring.
Mason’s mouth hung open in shock, petrified with horror. He instinctively drew both of his pistols. Blondie lifted his saber on the right. Howard lifted his nine iron on the left.
They barely had time to do that.
“Guns don’t work,” the old man muttered.
3
Only half a second to react.
David pitched back into the hallway. The black-feathered arrow barely missed his face, zipping into the ceiling like an angry hornet. He lay there for a moment, gulping air.
He stared up at the arrow stuck in the crown molding, trying to process all the weirdness–resisting his urge to vomit.
He checked himself and glared at his shaking hands. He was still real. His burning college apartment–still real.
Still very much on fire.
Coarse laughter from down below. The things that had just killed that poor guy? They were also now horribly real.
David flipped over on the floor.
He crawled into his room, gasping hard.
Those things weren’t human. No way in hell. Where did they come from?
He peeked out his curtains down at them from another window so that they wouldn’t spot him.
Their armor looked to be layered bands of leather and hide, studded with metal and spikes–like something out of a fantasy movie or a video game.
But they butchered the college kid’s body right where it lay, hacking off the leg and arm muscles away from the bones first and then ripping open the belly. They devoured the gory meat, skin, and entrails raw, with gusto.
Flames crackled in the living room by that time. If he didn’t get out, he’d die in the fire.
David thought of that poor dead guy. That could have easily been him down there.
He clenched his fists.
To hell with those creatures down below. Better to take his chances with them than the fire.
A life with Medieval Historical Society parents taught him both swordfighting and archery. He had weapons, and he knew how to use them.
He reached under his bed, dragged out his crossbow and a covered hip quiver full of bolts. Then his sword belt with with his scabbarded longsword, competition tomahawks, and fighting dagger.
The rest of his medieval garb and gear was still down in the trunk of his old car in the apartment parking lot. He’d just been to an event two weeks before and never bothered to unpack.
That included his own personal suit of armor.
But for now, these weapons would need to be enough.
He loaded his crossbow, went back into the hallway window, and shot the first monster through the goddam neck. Screw those murdering bastards, whatever the hell they were. David’s anger flared.
The creature fell to one side, gurgling and clawing at its death wound as David efficiently reloaded.
The second monster scrambled to shoot back.
David’s next shot passed right through its ugly, gore-stained face and out the back of its head. Dark black blood pooled around both of the dead creatures.
Good. To hell with those ugly buggers. They wouldn’t hurt anyone else ever again.
With them dead, David dropped his backpack to the ground, and then his crossbow on top of that. Then he quickly climbed out the window, hung from the sill, and jumped to the cold hard ground.
He rolled to one side and back up to his feet. His breath came out of his mouth and nose like white smoke. Frost coated everything like white dust.
He checked the bodies of the creatures and their weapons quickly. Nothing but pitted iron crap. His gear was far superior, but theirs could still kill.
Geez, they reeked. Their bodies already seemed to putrefied. They smelled like two-week-old roadkill in a hot summer.
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