Killing the Dead (Book 12): Fear the Reaper

by Murray, Richard

  Two guards, for that’s what I assumed they were, flanked them and once they reached the top of the stairs they were each forced to their knees.

  “This doesn’t look good,” I said and rested my hand on the hilt of my poignard.

  “Too bloody true,” Gregg agreed as he watched.

  Ryan rose from his seat and walked slowly towards the four kneeling people. Unlike the others, they weren’t dressed in black leather, but in torn, filthy clothing that I could smell even from where I stood, off to the side. The black-garbed man who had spoken fell into step behind him.

  The first person he stopped before, stared up at him with wide eyes that held no fear. I recognised her as the girl that had been brought to Lou’s building with the others. She had been the one who decided to join the Dead instead.

  Her hands were covered in gore almost to the elbows and I looked closer at each of the others. Theirs too were the same. In fact, blood spatter made up much of the stains on their clothes and bodies.

  “Are you dead?” Ryan asked.

  “No,” she replied in a clear voice.

  One of the guards pulled a short-bladed knife from behind his belt and passed it over to Ryan who flipped it in his hand and held it out to the girl, handle first.

  “Then take back your knife and go into the darkness.”

  She took the knife in a hand that trembled and pushed herself to her feet. She turned to the stairs and hesitated, glancing back.

  “You wish to re-join the living?” the black-garbed man behind Ryan asked.

  “N-no,” she said with a tremor of fear in her voice.

  “Then return tomorrow.”

  She took a slow step forward, down the stairs and then another, picking up speed with each step she made. She was soon lost from sight in the darkness below.

  “The fuck is going on?” Gregg asked and I shrugged, with no answer to give him.

  Ryan moved on to the next in line. A man, dark hair that fell almost to his shoulders and a thick beard over a strong face. He stared directly at Ryan as he approached and didn’t bow his head as he spoke.

  “I am dead.”

  “Is that so?” Ryan asked musingly. “Are you truly ready to leave the living behind?”

  “Y-yes,” he said. “I am dead!”

  “The dead do not fear,” Ryan said softly. “They do not weep for the ones they have lost.”

  “I am dead!” the man repeated, stronger this time.

  “The dead are apart from the living. Their world is not ours.”

  “We exist in the darkness,” the black-garbed man behind Ryan added. “We kill to protect the living. We die so they do not have to.”

  “The dead stand before the scourge,” Ryan continued without missing a beat. “The dead will never stand in the light again. Are you truly dead?”

  “I-I am dead!” the man repeated.

  “Then welcome, brother,” Ryan said softly.

  The man behind him pulled a black hood from behind his belt and passed it forward. Ryan held it in his hands a moment, the soft cotton hanging loosely between his fingers and swaying gently.

  “Wear your death shroud,” he said handing the cloth hood to the kneeling man. “Know that you will never face the living without it. You are of the Dead and only the dead can see you.”

  He slipped the hood over his head and accepted the hand that Ryan held out to him, helping him to his feet. Another knife was passed forward and the man took it without a word and moved to join the ranks behind as Ryan turned to the next in line.

  “What, the hell,” Gregg whispered and I shook my head as the question was repeated with the next in line.

  When they spoke, there were echoes of ritual behind every word. I had no idea what happened down in the darkness but it could not be anything good. It was utterly bizarre and I wanted to speak to Ryan about it, to explain to him how wrong it was, but I was fairly sure if I interrupted I would face a room full of angry zealots.

  The next man in line seemed to pass whatever test they were administering and the same words were repeated. A hood was presented and once he slipped it on, he received a knife before joining the massed ranks. Finally, Ryan moved on to the final person in line.

  “Are you dead?” he asked.

  “No!” the man replied and Ryan hesitated, his gaze shifting to me for just the briefest moment.

  “You are sure?” he asked and the black-garbed man behind him seemed surprised by the question.

  “Yes. I’m sorry, I can’t do it,” the kneeling man said.

  “Hold him,” Ryan said and the two guards grabbed the kneeling man’s arms.

  “What’s going on?” Gregg whispered and I wished I could answer him.

  The kneeling man had tears running down his craggy face. Hair that had long since turned grey was brushed from his eyes almost gently by one of the guards while another expertly ran a sharp knife down the front of his shirt, cutting it away.

  “Oh god, no,” I whispered as I looked up to the zombies hanging above us.

  “Name your crimes,” Ryan said.

  “I killed,” the man said. “I had to do it. She’d have told, y’see. I had to!”

  “Who did you kill?” Ryan asked and the man behind him shifted his feet.

  I had the impression that it wasn’t part of the ritual, that Ryan was altering it for our benefit. He wanted us, or perhaps more likely me, to know why he was about to do what he was.

  “J-jenny,” he said. “My g-granddaughter.”

  “Why did you kill her?”

  “Sir?” One of the guards asked, clearly confused.

  “Answer,” the black-garbed figure behind Ryan demanded.

  “S-she’d have told what I did.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I didn’t mean to. I couldn’t help it and we were all gonna die anyways.”

  The man was openly weeping now, great wracking sobs that shook his thin body. Ryan, stared down at him without pity, without hate, but with eagerness.

  His knifework was quick and precise. Undeterred by the man’s screams as he was held steady beneath that blade. A word was formed on the weeping man’s chest as we watched, ‘RAPIST.’

  “What the bloody hell is going on?” Jennings demanded, stepping forward, his hand on the gun holstered on his hip.

  Ryan stopped, his knife held before him and turned his head to look at the Captain for a moment before glancing at me.

  “Don’t you dare look to her!” Jennings snapped. “I’m in charge here. You will not hurt that man, is that clear?”

  “But I deserve it,” the man said. “I deserve to die!”

  “No!” Jennings said. “If you’ve committed a crime you’ll face a jury. Not this barbaric nonsense.”

  Ryan’s knife slammed forward, sinking almost to the hilt in the kneeling man’s neck. He shuddered, body convulsing as the guards held him upright and I hoped I was the only one who saw the shiver of pleasure run through Ryan.

  “Dammit man!” Jennings snapped as he pulled his gun from his holster.

  “Captain!” I said as a very large number of knives were suddenly drawn and several black garbed figures broke rank to form a wall between Jennings and Ryan.

  “Get out of my way, damn you!” he said.

  The black-garbed figures ignored him, staring silently at him and unconcerned by the gun pointed their way. The other marine in his squad pulled free his gun and all hell was about to break loose.

  “Captain!” I said, firmer this time. “Remember the mission. Let the Admiral sort this out when you report it.”

  His gun wavered as he flicked his eyes towards me before snapping back on the black-garbed acolytes.

  “Dammit,” he said. “They just killed a man!”

  “A bad man,” Gregg said. “You heard him. You want that sort mixing with the kids back home?”

  “Damn…” he said again as his weapon lowered.

  I breathed a sigh of relief as the captain slowly holste
red his gun, though he kept a suspicious eye on the acolytes. They, in turn, ignored him and returned to their place in line.

  Ryan had paid scant attention to the situation, cleaning his knife as he watched the man slowly bleed out. I couldn’t help but think of the man’s own damning indictment of himself. He wasn’t an innocent and so Ryan had given him the chance to join or die.

  How many others amongst his people had committed crimes. How many weren’t innocent and how was he any better than any of the other warlords that were rising across the land? What gave him the right to decide who lived and died?

  A question I had no answer to as I had asked it of myself so often before when I had made those decisions. For me, it had been for the greater good. I did what was necessary to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves.

  Something that it seemed, Ryan was doing too.

  Chapter 13 – Ryan

  All in all, the evening’s rite could have gone a little better. I hadn’t quite planned on letting those soldiers see me kill someone so soon, but I could at least assume that Lily understood why I killed them.

  Since I could only truly enjoy killing those who would be considered anything but innocent, I had to take my pleasure where I could. The Ferals were a challenge, the Shamblers a dull chore but the raiders… ah, they were a different matter.

  “It went well, my lor… Ryan,” Samuel said.

  “Indeed, it did,” I agreed as I watched the corpse rise to join the others hanging from the ceiling.

  It would return to life soon enough and if we were lucky, it would be a Feral and I would get to kill him again. Most likely it would become a Shambler though and hang up there until it rotted apart.

  “Any more in the tunnels or is it just the girl?”

  “Jeremiah and Lorraine,” Samuel said. “They were brought in by Emma’s Fist.”

  “Ah, good. They understand the rules of course?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I nodded and watched as the last of the minions left the room. Most would be off to rest while some would replace those on watch. As we grew in number, it was becoming ever more of a chore to assign rotas. Soon enough I would need to create a Fist that would be purely administrative. A sure waste of good fighting talent.

  “How many undead died today?” I asked.

  “More than five hundred, less than eight,” Samuel replied. “We lost four.”

  “So many? How?”

  “Alison was the only survivor. She told me that her Fist was patrolling along Kew Terrace…”

  “By the Gardens?” I interrupted and he nodded.

  “Aye, sir.”

  “An ambush then. I’ve warned you about that road. Too many places for the Feral’s to gather and wait.”

  “Aye.”

  “Why did she return? Did she kill all the Ferals?”

  “No, sir.”

  I could sense his disapproval and growing anger. It was almost a match for my irritation. Another minor problem I had to deal with.

  “Where is she?”

  “The cage,” he said. “Figured it would be best to deal with in private.”

  He gestured in the vague direction of the soldiers and I sighed. They were already becoming a problem and they’d only been with us for half a day. I shied away from thinking about Lily being with them, being one of them. That was a problem for later.

  “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

  Samuel pulled a torch from his pocket and flicked it on, the tight bright beam cutting through the darkness as we descended the steps into the subway. I kept a careful distance from him, all too aware that the darkness of the tunnels would be a perfect place to see me dead.

  The sound down there echoed weirdly. With no trains running and none of the usual clatter and clamour of city life, the other noises were heightened.

  Somewhere, along one of the tunnels, water was leaking from a pipe. Most of the time you could hear the splash of each drop of water. Far too often, that was drowned out by the scurrying of thousands of rats as they made their way through the tunnels.

  Their stench was everywhere. The noxious odour of their urine that seemed to burn in your nostrils. The acrid odour that you could almost taste. It was worse than the horrendous foulness of the undead.

  He swung his torch along the length of the platform, the rodents caught in the light failing to run as they once might have. It was their world now and they knew it.

  We jumped down from the platform and set off along the south-western route. To the north would be where we’d find the trainees, going about their task. We had no need to meet with them. They would continue their work until the next evening when they would be allowed up to kneel before me. No, we went the other direction and it didn’t take long to come to the carriage.

  It was the sound we heard first. The moaning of the undead, echoing along the tunnel in a way that made it hard to pinpoint where they were. The hairs on the back of your neck would stand up and the skin of your arms would prickle as your mind convinced itself that the sound was coming from close by when in reality it was further ahead.

  I smiled grimly as I thought of the absolute terror the trainees would have as they walked those tunnels, on their own, in the dark. Seeking out the undead, killing them when they couldn’t even see them. It was a psychological torment that had broken some of the strongest people we’d met. I was immensely proud of it.

  “Here,” Samuel said as we reached the train carriage.

  A standard underground train, it almost filled the tunnel entirely and there was just enough room to walk alongside it towards the doors. The first set were open and the sounds of the undead much louder.

  Dressed in black leather but without her cloth hood, she knelt on the floor of the carriage, as far from the doors that led to the next carriage as she could get. Broken glass littered the floor and dried blood stained the walls and seating. Rats scurried about the carriage, fearless and uncaring of our presence.

  Arms were stretched through the broken glass of those far carriage doors, hopeless moans coming through as they strained to reach the woman kneeling just out of reach. The chain around her waist allowed her to stay just out of reach of those zombies while another chain secured that door, preventing them from getting through.

  “My Lord Death!” she said as she noticed our presence.

  She tried to rise, but in doing so, inadvertently moved within reach of the grasping hands. She shrieked and pulled away, the chain stretching taut.

  “Alison, is it?” I asked and she nodded.

  I vaguely remembered her. A pretty woman with the kind of big brown eyes you usually saw in animated films. She had mousy brown hair that she wore in a bob and was as broken inside as the rest of my followers.

  “You joined us, three weeks ago?”

  “Yes, My Lord Death.”

  I really needed to stop that. I had no idea who’d started it, but all of a sudden, they were all using it as my title and since Lily was around, I had a very real need for them to quit using it. I could only imagine what she would think of it.

  “Explain yourself.”

  There was no kindness in my voice and I stilled my face, not that she could see it that well in the darkness. The only light we had was shone directly into her eyes.

  “They got us!” She said. “Came out of the trees and shrubs. We didn’t have a chance!”

  Out of the trees! That was new and a little disturbing.

  “Ferals, all of them?”

  “Yeah. They killed Jonny and Sarah before we could even react. They tore Michael apart as we fought them.”

  “How many did you kill?” Samuel asked.

  “Five, maybe six at most. There was just too many.”

  “So, three of you dead and you and…”

  “Terri. She told me to go, to tell you what happened.”

  “Your duty was to avenge the rest of your Fist,” Samuel said. “The Dead do not run.”

  “But I understand,” I
said as I softened my tone and knelt down before her. “Your duty was also to obey your Fist leader.”

  “Y-yes,” she said bowing her head.

  I was pretty sure she was ashamed of herself. The few rules we had were severe, but they were designed to weed out the weak. You either kill the undead or you die. There was no retreat. Why should there be a need when we were already dead?

  “Unchain yourself,” I said with a soft sigh.

  She unclipped the chain from her belt and I hid my smile. She could have walked away anytime but had remained in place, despite her fear, despite how close she was to those grasping hands. I pulled my knife from my belt and handed it to her, hilt first.

  “One finger,” I said. “You can take it from your left if you are right-handed.”

  “Thank you, My Lord Death,” she whispered as she took the knife and pulled the glove off her left hand.

  To her credit, she didn’t scream as she sliced cleanly through the little finger of her left hand. Just sucked in a deep lungful of air and clamped her jaw shut. She wiped the knife clean on her sleeve before passing it back to me.

  “Here,” Samuel said.

  He passed her a clean cloth that she accepted gratefully and pressed it down on the place where her finger had been just a moment before.

  “Return to the surface,” I said. “Have that treated.”

  “Yes.”

  She hung her head in shame. She knew that the others who saw it would know that she had failed. They would ostracise her in a place where she was already cut off from speaking to any but her closest brethren. I placed a hand on her arm as she rose.

  “Tomorrow you will lead us to the place where they died. You shall have your chance at redemption.”

  “Thank you, My Lord,” she whispered with a sob.

  We watched her go, moving away into the darkness away from the thin light of the torch Samuel carried. The silence stretched until he was sure she was far enough away that she wouldn’t be able to make out his words and even then, he lowered his voice as he spoke.

  “That was kind of you.”

  “Not really,” I said. “She will fight all the harder tomorrow to prove herself.”

  “None would follow her into battle,” he said admonishingly. “But when they see her fight beside you, they will do.”