Convergence: The Zombie War Chronicles - Vol. 2

by Damon Novak

  CONVERGENCE

  THE ZOMBIE WAR CHRONICLES

  Book Two

  by

  DAMON NOVAK

  CONVERGENCE

  The Zombie War Chronicles

  IS A WORK OF FICTION BY

  Damon Novak

  All characters contained herein are fictional and all similarities to actual persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental.

  No portion of this text may be copied or duplicated without author or publisher written permission, except for use in professional reviews.

  ©2018 Dolphin Moon Publishing

  ISBN 978-1721127689

  Edited by Seven Editing

  Cover Art By Jeffrey Kosh

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  First, let me thank everyone out there who decided to pick up my first book and read it. It’s more than an amazing feeling to know that some of you are enjoying what I’ve created.

  If you’re reading this, then you liked it enough to grab the second one, so double thanks to you.

  Next, let me thank the beta readers. (Who even knew what a beta reader was?) They are the ones who get first eyes on a book – at least in the indy world – and their input is really, REALLY important. If I’ve confused them, or messed up a timeline or a storyline along the way, they’ll often catch it. So, Giles Batchelor, Lana Sibley, Nick Wisniewski, Laurie Mault, Connie Nealy, and Tammy Sue Hooper-Hubbard … THANKS.

  Finally, thanks to Ramona Martine, proprietor of Seven Editing, and to Eric A. Shelman, my mentor, publisher, and friend.

  Ramona’s excellent work made the beta readers’ job much easier, and Eric’s support and input along the way has been invaluable.

  Now – on with Convergence: The Zombie War Chronicles, Vol. 2. Enjoy.

  PROLOGUE

  Climbing Fox Wattana

  Sixty-seven days before the black rain.

  The Henomawi Tribe had always been determined, despite their predicament. They had survived – but hardly thrived – on the postage stamp-sized piece of land to which they had been relegated years ago by the United States government.

  Many of the younger members of the tribe had fled, seeking prosperity elsewhere. The tribe was aging, and without some drastic action being taken, would die away.

  Almost as if they never existed.

  Climbing Fox Wattana was their Shaman, their medicine man, as the white people called him. To the Henomawi Tribe, he was Mundunugu. The One Who Speaks to the Spirits; their mystical leader.

  He was not supposed to have ever been the tribe’s leader; that had been Standing Rock’s honor. No, Wattana was knowledgeable in the tribe’s ancient ways of healing and held an undying faith in the spirits who held power over the earth, the sun, the moon, and the stars.

  His time was best spent in the presence of the spirits, not at a tribal council or sitting before American government officials, fighting for scraps.

  The Chief had been adept at that. Even so, he gained little for the Henomawi Tribe.

  Chief Standing Rock had died a month earlier, the victim of an attack just outside of the Henomawi Reservation. He had gone to meet with a local congressman in his efforts to gain approval to expand the reservation by over a hundred square miles.

  The meeting did not yield fruit; nobody believed it would. But Standing Rock’s disappointing news was never delivered.

  Not by him, anyway.

  The Grove County Police, whom Wattana had never trusted, said their chief was found battered and beaten, lying in the dirt outside of his pickup truck, just a short walk from the entrance to the reservation.

  It was a blow to a community already in deep decline, and ravaged by alcoholism and hopelessness.

  The chief’s son, Yellowfoot, had been one of those youths who had abandoned the tribe. He would not become Chief.

  Everyone had looked to Wattana. They had been without leadership for three weeks, and since Standing Rock’s death, Wattana had received dozens of tribe members, appealing to him – practically begging him – to become their new Chief.

  He had refused until the night of Dancing Rain’s visit, believing a younger man may find more success in negotiations with the outside world.

  That was his opinion before taking possession of the ancient texts.

  Climbing Fox was one of only a dozen or fewer who could still read the old language; there were some words with which he was unfamiliar, but he could usually use the context to understand the meaning.

  When the knock came at his door, he had been settling down for the night. Irritated, he looked at the door and considered letting it go unanswered.

  They rely on you, he thought. He stood and went to the door, pulling it open. A young woman stood there.

  “Dancing Rain,” he said. It was the late chief’s daughter.

  The girl smiled. She was twenty-three years old, a beauty whose beaming face was the exact duplicate of her mother’s, who had died two years before of breast cancer.

  “Mundunugu, I am sorry to disturb you at such a late hour.”

  Mundunugu was the name many of the tribe members used when addressing Wattana. It translated roughly to Medicine Man but had ancient origins.

  Clutched in Dancing Rain’s arms was a tattered, leather knapsack. She looked down at it and asked, “May I come in?”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” said Wattana, stepping aside to grant her entry. He waved his hand toward the kitchen table and chairs.

  Dancing Rain hurried in and he closed the door behind her. “Sit, sit,” he said. “I’ll light a fire. It is cold tonight.”

  She pulled out a chair and took a seat at the table, placing the satchel in the center. Climbing Fox stirred the dying embers until a flame appeared, then added two small logs to the fire.

  He pulled the screen closed and turned, approaching the table. “What have we got here?” he asked, as the fire crackled to life behind them.

  Her hands atop the worn, leather satchel, she said, “This was found in my father’s possessions, but not in his filing cabinets with the other tribe records. It was in a secret place beneath his bed.”

  Wattana reached for it, sliding it toward him. “Beneath his bed? How did you discover it?” He lifted the flap and peered inside.

  “The carpet was badly worn, and I intended to remove it and finish and polish the wood beneath. Shining Eyes was going to help me. When we moved the furniture out, we found a cut in the carpet. The panel was beneath it, just a dirt hole, really. The satchel is all that was inside. They appear to be ancient texts.”

  Wattana slid an old book from inside the pouch, its cover fashioned of timeworn animal hide, likely deer. The hair was nearly worn away over most of it. The book wasn’t thick, perhaps only a half-inch. He opened the powdering cover to find brittle and yellowed paper inside, with handwritten words scribed on them.

  Wattana carefully inspected the pages. “These appear to be Henomawi texts. Very old. Have you read any?”

  “I do not read the language, Mundunugu. Some, but not enough to know the meaning. There are too many words with which I am unfamiliar.”

  Wattana carefully turned the pages, reading only a sentence or two from each page. By the time he had reached the fourth page, his heart was beating noticeably faster. He put his open palm over his heart, trying to control his breathing, which had grown shallow.

  “You must go. Leave the bag with me.”

  “Is everything alright?” asked Dancing Rain.

  Wattana nodded. “It will be. I must study these pages. Much can be learned from our ancestors.”

  “You’re pale, Mundunugu. I hope I didn’t –”

  “I’m a he
aler, Dancing Rain. If I need help, I shall heal myself.”

  The girl smiled and nodded. “Of course. I’m sorry.” She stood. “Please, stay seated. Thank you for seeing me, and I’m very sorry for the interruption.”

  Wattana waved a hand at her, turning back to the first page as she closed the door behind her.

  His thoughts were filled with fear.

  And hope.

  Ω

  Wattana stayed awake reading the contents of the old book until the yellow glow of the morning sunlight dissolved the night. His fingers continually played on the two words scrawled in the center of the book’s cover.

  Giga Artleiste.

  Blood Revenge.

  This practice had been known for centuries, and it was taken seriously by elders in the Henomawi Tribe. In ancient, and even more recent times, when hunters returned with deer or other game, it was believed the ghosts of the animals would follow the hunters back to their village to take blood revenge. The Henomawi feared that the ghost could retaliate by infecting the hunter and his family with disease, or misfortune. Native hunters performed special incantations over the game they killed to pacify these spirits.

  Wattana’s mind drifted through their history as he sifted through the texts. He referred to some of his other books to decipher the exact meaning of the words before him, and the implications of it all.

  To him, it was earth-shattering. World-changing.

  The consequences ran through his mind. If he were to carry out the curse detailed on the pages, would the ghosts of millions and millions of dead retaliate against him and his tribe?

  It may not matter. He and his people were doomed to slowly die away and vacate the world if nothing changed. Nobody had answers, and the outside world seemed to have closed their eyes and ears to their pleas.

  Wattana closed the cover. He would go to sleep and see what the gods told him in his dreams.

  He would know the answer upon awakening.

  Ω

  Climbing Fox awakened at noon. He was hungry but did not take the time to eat; his mind kept returning – as it had all night – to a passage describing the aftermath of the ceremony he now considered performing.

  The words were cryptic, even to him. He pored over many books, trying to find anything similar, but in the end, he gave up.

  The words translated as follows:

  After the moon and the sun cross the sky three times, an inky blackness will rain down over all creatures of the world. Only those with the blood of our land in their veins shall live; the others shall walk the earth, forever hungry, forever dead.

  What was the inky blackness to which the words referred? Surely it could not be a literal description?

  Often, the Henomawi elders used creative language to add a mystical air to their ceremonies. They believed it encouraged loyalty and dedication on the part of those in attendance.

  These downtrodden tribe members, marginalized by the outside world for all their lives; left to live in poverty and squalor on an ill-suited, tiny patch of land.

  Land granted by the white men who only wanted to shut them up. Shut them away.

  They may as well be caged for the freedom they had.

  The ancient words were, no doubt, meant to empower them; to give them a sense of privilege that their people had the power of magic at their disposal.

  Climbing Fox had believed it for many years. His doubts had begun to settle in fully at Chief Standing Rock’s death.

  When it was only the two of them, it had been Henry and Jim. They would drink whiskey in moderation and discuss the fate of their tribe. Two men facing an uphill battle to save their people. Then Jim had been murdered outside their gates, and Wattana had been burdened with the weight of the world.

  Of the entire Henomawi Nation. For all that nation was anymore.

  His mind returned to the strange words, and what they might mean. Walking the earth, forever hungry and forever dead?

  Surely this was also another way of saying that those affected would be filled with regret, and would change their way of thinking; more a reference to what men would feel in their souls. It could not mean to physically kill people. If that were the case, how, then, could they walk the earth forever hungry?

  After meditating with this knowledge for a long while, Climbing Fox Wattana picked up his cell phone. He scrolled down the list to the name Atian Shining Eyes and pressed the button.

  “Hello?” came the young man’s voice.

  “Atian? It is me, Climbing Fox. I’d like you to find Silver Bolt and Dancing Rain and join me here. At my home.”

  “Silver – oh, Magi. Yes, Mundunugu. When?”

  “As soon as you can. I will eat now, so will be done by the time you arrive.”

  Ω

  As he cleaned the dishes, the knock came on the door. “Come in!” he called.

  The door opened, and Atian came in first. Behind him was Anjeni Dancing Rain and Magi Silver Bolt.

  “Mundunugu,” said Anjeni. “It smells like chicken soup.”

  “Your senses are finely tuned,” said Climbing Fox. “Please, sit there on the sofa. You should be comfortable while we discuss my decision.”

  As they moved to the couches, Atian said, “So you have decided to become our Chief!”

  “It is not about that. Your guesses will be wasted, so don’t bother.”

  He finished drying the bowl and spoon and put the pot aside to dry in the rack. As he passed the kitchen table, he gathered up the text Dancing Rain had brought him the night before.

  “Ah, the book,” said Anjeni. “Did you find it interesting, Mundunugu?”

  Wattana sat. “It is why you are here. I trust you. I believe you will be of vital importance as I carry out my duty.”

  “Your … duty?” asked Anjeni Dancing Rain. “From there?” She indicated toward the book.

  He nodded. “It was the great spirits who caused you to find this book. They also directed you here.”

  “Are there answers in there, Mundunugu?” asked Anjeni.

  Magi and Atian jerked their heads back and forth between Wattana and Anjeni, confusion on their faces.

  Wattana leaned forward. “Anjeni, were you able to read any of this?”

  She shook her head. “I recognized the words on the front. Giga Artleiste. I know those words translate to Blood Revenge.”

  Wattana nodded and patted the worn, leather cover of the book. “Let me be clear. I do not yet know what the ceremony described here will do to help us. It is described as a way to take revenge against our enemies, so that means it is likely a curse. However you describe it, it is meant to affect others in a bad way, and to help our people.”

  “How?” asked Magi. “Has anyone ever performed it before?”

  Wattana stared at him. He had asked him to come because he had been very interested in their people’s history and heritage from the time he was a young boy.

  “I do not know when it was written. Perhaps it was used, but did not work.”

  Magi stared, fascinated. “May I?” he asked. Wattana slid the book to him, and he opened it with reverence.

  Magi could both speak and read the language of the Henomawi. He was born on the night of a great storm, and as his head pushed out of his mother, a great bolt of lightning had struck a mighty oak tree nearby. It lit up the sky like daylight, and the fire that had burned inside that enormous tree had smoldered for a week.

  Magi had shoulder-length brown hair, almost black. His eyes were a deep brown, so black his pupils were almost non-existent. He was a serious young man who loved his people and would do anything for them.

  Dancing Rain was Magi’s fiancée. He was twenty-two years old when he asked for her hand in marriage two years prior, and the Chief had given the union his blessing.

  Standing Rock died before the ceremony could even be scheduled.

  It was one more reason; his future father-in-law and the chief of his tribe had been killed by those who would be the targets of the cere
mony.

  Wattana knew Magi would be all-in.

  Part of the reason he knew that was because while the other young men and women respected him, they did not believe in the mystical ways of the spirits.

  Magi did. He was Henomawan through and through, embracing all their beliefs and ceremonies.

  Wattana could not blame the other young people for their lack of faith; they had seen little help come their way, and things seemed only to get worse from one year to the next.

  The spirits were nothing more than stories and wishes to them, Wattana knew.

  Still, he thought. That will make it easier for them to assist me. They will humor an old man – just an old man, not a shaman with extraordinary powers – to summon help from their gods.

  Wattana carried on. With great patience and in fine detail, he explained what he intended to do; he told them why, and what he suspected would happen as a result. He told them to be patient afterward, for worthwhile things often took time to manifest.

  Whatever this ceremony would achieve, it may take some time to realize it was working.

  Then he asked for their help if things went wrong.

  He didn’t say it to his young visitors – soon to be his accomplices in his dark venture. He didn’t really believe it. Still, the thought lingered:

  What if the words were meant literally? What if it was dark magic contained on those timeworn pages?

  It did not matter. The Henomawi people had nothing to lose.

  Interim Chief Climbing Fox Wattana dismissed his guests. After they left, he began at the first yellowed page, and read the book over and over again.

  He could make no mistakes.

  Ω

  August 28, 2017

  The time had come. A month earlier, the tribe had unanimously deemed him to be their new Chief, despite his insistence that a younger man was needed.