by Mark Tufo
I immediately shut down my mind to the night runners. A couple may have followed me through the mess, but I don’t want to remain a beacon to summon more. The ringing in my ear hasn’t subsided one bit as I roll to my side and rise to my knees. I barely hear the crunch of a footstep before something large slams into my side. Thrown back to the ground, I feel a heavy weight fall on me. I continue into a roll, reaching out with my free hand to grab at whatever just crashed into me. We tumble, exchanging positions as we roll down the slope.
Again on my back, a night runner is attempting to get to my face and neck. Using the momentum generated and aided by the slope of the hill, I yank at the snarling creature inches from my face. My back wrenches with the effort, but I manage to roll on top of it—then the creature does the same to me and we roll down the hill, continuously swapping positions.
I work my knife between us as we roll, worried that I might actually end up stabbing myself. Our tumble comes to an abrupt halt as we slam into a tree, my ribs taking the brunt of the hit. With the night runner on top, I find its neck and push upward with my free hand, my knife hand sliding between our torsos. I plunge my blade upward, underneath the diaphragm. The night runner stiffens as my hand is again coated in warm blood. Twisting the knife and turning it back and forth inside the night runner’s chest cavity, blood trickles out of its mouth. It’s then followed by an eruption of liquid gushing out. The creature slackens and I push its heavy weight away.
Shakily climbing to my feet, I see another night runner charging directly toward me from further up the hill. I’m spent and don’t know if I have the energy for another engagement. My ribs ache from slamming into the tree, and my back isn’t happy being wrenched like it was. My legs long ago said fuck it. I stand, not having the energy to go for the carbine dangling at my side, holding a knife dripping in long drooling strings of blood. The night runner slows and then stops, its silver gaze staring at me from up the hill.
“Well, come on, let’s get this over with,” I say, my voice so low that it can’t be heard outside of the immediate vicinity.
With a low growl, the night runner charges ahead, quickly gaining both speed and momentum. Its loping strides down the hill rapidly close the distance. A couple of yards away, it leaps into the air, sailing directly toward me with extended arms. If it hits me, I’ll be knocked far down the hill. I don’t move, almost too tired to get out of its way. At the last moment, I step quickly to the side and watch with interest as the creature’s eyes go from excitement to surprise. It flails in the air, trying to both grab me and stop its headlong flight.
Another step to the side takes me out of its reach as it plows into the tree with a sickening crunch. The night runner slides down the trunk, scraping against the rough bark. I’m immediately on it, rolling the creature onto its back. The silver gleam of its eyes stares at me from a blood-smeared face.
“Leave me the fuck alone,” I breathe, going to my knees and thrusting my knife underneath its rib cage. I twist the blade as I watch the life fade from its eyes and the body goes slack.
I still hear the clamor further down the hill, but a quick search through the surrounding woods doesn’t reveal any more night runners in the vicinity. I stare for a few seconds longer, worried that the trunks blocking sight lines might be hiding others. All around me remains empty. Wiping my blade clean on the tattered rags of the night runner and sheathing it, I rise and start trudging back up the hill, following the disturbed needles from my tumble down the slope. I even manage to find my handgun lying at the base of a tree.
I’m hoping that the night runners fighting the zombies are too busy to notice that the ones I fought with here faded from their minds. Otherwise, they’ll be on me in no time. Staring up the slope, feeling absolutely spent, I wonder just how many more times I’ll be forced to scale this particular hillside. It’s as if I’m in the middle of some universal joke with gods and goddesses sitting around drinking nectar and laughing uproariously each time, perhaps placing bets.
I need to quickly clear out of the area, but in my state, there is no quickly doing anything. I place my first step up the hill with the sound of the continued fight below me. Adrenaline still courses through my body, but the intensity of it is fading. I climb, pushing off trunks to assist. My thoughts go toward Otter and the hope that he made it to the cabin. I hated to have left him like I did, but saw no other choice. He still had ten minutes or so in the open and was going too slow. There was no doubt that the night runners would have caught up to him if we had proceeded as we had been.
Several times, I have to pause, my hands on my knees and breaths coming in harsh gasps. The pisser of it is, I may not get a chance to rest come morning. If we haven’t drawn away all of the zombies, the town will still be in danger, meaning we’ll have to haul ass back there to warn them. Otter’s leg is in no shape to haul ass anywhere and when my muscles stiffen, I’ll be as effective as a signpost trying to walk. But I’m alive for the moment, and that has to count for something.
It seems like hours later that I stumble into the clearing. There isn’t any light emanating from the cabin and my heart seizes. With only the sound of the nearby creek rushing over rocks, I look for any sign of struggle, or perhaps Otter’s remains, but then I realize that the cabin was designed to be secure. Thus, I shouldn’t be seeing any light from the outside.
Stumbling to the door, I try the latch only to find that it’s locked tight. Pounding on it, I hear nothing coming from inside and realize that Otter wouldn’t just open the door to something knocking on it.
“It’s me … open up,” I shout, not caring if there are night runners in the area. I just want to go inside and collapse.
The fact that the door is locked from the inside is encouraging: a sign that Otter made it inside. After a moment, there comes the sound of movement from within and the door opens. As I was leaning on it, I nearly fall inside, stumbling to my hands and knees. I hear the sound of the door closing and the barricade sliding into place.
“I’d pretty much given up hope. I thought I was done for myself, but when the silver eyes all turned away at once and then you didn’t show, well, you’ll be glad to hear that the funeral service I had for you was quite moving,” Otter says.
“I’m sure it was. I may need it yet,” I say, breathing hard.
It’s difficult to believe that I actually made it. My body hurts, and my mind is about to shut down from exhaustion. Even staring at the wood flooring, I can’t fathom that I’m inside and safe. Boots come to rest in front of me and I can’t lift my head to look upward.
“Is any of that yours?” Otter asks, I’m sure referring to the blood covering me.
“Not that I’m aware of,” I reply.
“Well, you still smell bad, maybe even worse than before. Do you want me to help you into one of the cots?”
“No, I’m good here,” I respond, collapsing fully to the floor, darkness immediately closing in.
Consciousness returns like a speeding freight train. I open my eyes, and the minute details in the grain of the wood floor come into view. I see the suppressor of my M-4, magnified like some photographer’s artistic picture. My mouth is dry from inhaling dust and I try to find a place on my body that doesn’t ache. I feel like I’ve been run over, the bus driver putting the vehicle in reverse and then doing it again.
Through the blur of waking, I notice beams of sunlight pouring across the slight warp of the wooden boards. With a moan, deep aches sending their protest to my brain, I push off from the floor. A blanket slides off me and into a wrinkled lump. My clothing crackles from the soaked-in blood and other liquids to the point that I think my sleeves may actually break. On my hands and knees, I stretch my back as if I were a cat in a beam of sunshine.
“Welcome back,” I hear Otter from nearby. “I tried placing a pillow under you, but you weren’t overly amenable to that.”
“What time is it?” I inquire.
“The sun rose about an hour ago,” Otter answ
ers.
“Ugh. That means I have to move again, doesn’t it?”
“As much as I’d like to hang out and catch up on our favorite books, I believe so.”
Standing sends a storm of electrical impulses from my legs as they plead for me not to go further. It’s then that I realize just how rank the interior is, even though I feel a slight draft from the open door and window.
“It’s not very pleasant, is it?” Otter states.
“Is that you or me?” I question.
“I’m not sure. And by that, I mean it’s you.”
Without another word, I gather my carbine and start for the door. I don’t have to ask if it’s safe outside—the door wouldn’t be open were it not. Stumbling outside, I pause for a moment as warm sunlight, beaming through a break in the surrounding trees, strikes my face. I turn to let it hit, closing my eyes and feeling a touch revitalized. However, the pleasure is short-lived. Opening my eyes, I can almost see sickly green waves wafting up from my clothing.
With slow steps, the muscles in my legs stiff, I work my way down to the stream flowing nearby. The burbling of it as it rushes over smooth stones and around protruding rocks is calming. In my youth, I could spend an entire day sitting beside such a brook, letting my mind wander.
Standing beside the flowing water, listening to its peaceful sound with beams of sunlight along the banks and on its surface, I contemplate just remaining here at the cabin. Sure, there are bad memories of when the overseers took Trip, but those memories seem faded as I stand on the bank in the early light. With the experiences that I’ve had so far in this world, if I push any further, it’s likely to kill me. Although, that might be an improvement on how I currently feel.
“Say, I meant to thank you,” Otter says from behind, drawing me from my thoughts.
“For what?”
“For drawing the silvers away.”
“Meh, I didn’t do all that much,” I respond.
“It doesn’t look that way,” Otter says.
“I just led them–” I start.
“Just say you’re welcome.”
“Sorry. I have a difficult time acknowledging shit like that. So, you’re welcome.”
“That’s better. So, are you going to jump in or just stare at it?”
“I thought I’d maybe just stare,” I reply, laying my vest and weapons on the ground.
As I step into the stream, water rushes over my boots creating a murky trail that flows downstream. I send a quick mental apology to any forest creature that happens to drink this foul water and then head deeper in. My pant legs billow as the water flows around me, the coolness both a shock and comfort to my sore calves.
Deeper in, I sink carefully to a sitting position. If you’re a guy being immersed in cold water, you’ll know what carefully means. I scrub at my pants, working the dried stains free. Removing the knife I had used, I do the same. The dried blood flakes away and is carried downstream. I then fully lie down, immersing my entire body and scrubbing away at my shirt, face, and hair. When I finally sit up, water dripping to rejoin its kind, I’m like a new man. Continuing to scrub, I immerse myself again. Removing my boots, I contemplate just letting my socks wash away, but I only have one other pair.
Again on the bank, I clean my vest and weapons separately. I’d like to do more, but with no idea of what’s happening regarding the zombies, it’s time to be off. The cold water did wonders for my aching muscles, but they’re still letting me know their displeasure. After having a bite to eat and closing up the cabin, Otter and I again set out for Valhalla. We’re no closer to getting a helicopter; if anything, we seem to be getting further and further away.
“Assuming the zombies are still moving down the highway, do you think the town will vacate if we tell them what’s coming?” I ask as we work our way down the slope.
“If it weren’t for the, what do you call them, night runners?”
I nod.
“Yeah, that’s it. If it weren’t for the night runners that attacked the town, I’d say telling them about zombies on the highway would welcome introductions into white vests. But, with the town devastated like that, I’d say they’d be amenable to leaving,” Otter answers. “But I also don’t know where they’d go. As we talked about earlier, south is the best option. But as far as I know, there’s nothing there, and they won’t last long without a continuous supply of food.”
“Do you know how much ammo might be in the town?”
“The cops might have some kind of stockpile, but not enough for the horde we saw.”
“That’s what I thought. So, by sending them away, we’d only be delaying the inevitable.”
“That might be the case.”
“I don’t suppose there are enough boats to carry everyone out to sea?” I ask.
Otter shakes his head.
“Well, let’s just see what we’re dealing with when we get there.
The sun climbs higher, white cotton ball clouds rapidly crossing an otherwise blue sky. Around midmorning, the tops of the trees begin to sway as the wind picks up, bringing in more clouds that slowly crowd out the heavens. Angling toward town and getting closer to the highway, a familiar odor begins to assail my nostrils.
We slow, looking through the viewable lanes between the trees to see if those we drew into the forest have ventured this way. Nothing is moving. As before, we creep closer to the road and see the same long line of undead ambling closer to town.
“It doesn’t look like our effort yesterday did shit,” I comment.
“It got you to take a bath, didn’t it?” Otter replies.
I pause, staring at Otter inquisitively for a few seconds. “Your mother really didn’t like you much, did she?”
“She thought I was a saint.”
“She couldn’t have been more wrong.”
As we move along the slope, trying to get ahead of the horde, the wind picks up. It carries the strong scent of decay with each gust that powers through, the top boughs whooshing as they sway. Looking straight up, I see the trunks bend impossibly, rocking back and forth. Through breaks in the overhead cover, the clouds thicken, hinting at rain.
With both rain and the possibility of having to fight a massive wave of zombies on the horizon, and considering what I’ve been through so far on this miserable world, I feel a little like Job: pushed to see how far I will bend without breaking. I haven’t been here long, but each and every day has brought some life-threatening set of circumstances; frankly, I’m growing a touch weary of it. If it hasn’t been a direct threat, then it’s been an intrusion into my sanity. Having seen Lynn, Robert, Nic, and Bri in this world nearly destroyed my psyche. I just want to find my helicopter and go home, please.
After another hour, Otter and I find the front of the line. The zombies are shuffling on the pavement, seemingly heading in random directions. The slope on one side of the road and the river on the other act as a funnel, the mass of undead remaining mostly on the highway and edging closer to the town.
Moving has loosened me up some, and Otter doesn’t seem to be much bothered by his leg as we push ahead toward Valhalla. We’ll be there ahead of the zombies, but with only a day to prepare for either their arrival or the town’s exodus.
As we walk, my mind furiously considers ways to stop or slow them down. If there were a bridge to blow, that would be ideal, but Otter indicated that there weren’t any between here and there. Creating a large enough landslide might only push the creatures further into the woods, which would stretch the defenses as people would have to watch the entire forest instead of being able to concentrate on the highway. One of my biggest concerns is the possibility of them getting into the river and floating into town. Then people would have to station along the banks to watch for any emergence. And if any zombies floated out to sea, they could be washed ashore, essentially surrounding the town. Of course, all of those concerns won’t be a factor should the town evacuate south.
“Do you think we should enter town together?
” I ask as we begin descending toward the coastal community.
“I don’t think we should be openly carrying, if that’s what you mean. I think it would be awfully difficult to share our story under gunfire or from behind bars,” Otter states.
“I didn’t exactly mean that. I was more thinking that it might raise an eyebrow or two if we were seen together. Anyone who knows you also knows that you don’t have a twin. It’s going to be difficult enough telling people what’s coming and getting them to organize. I can just envision being bombarded by endless questions until it’s too late,” I say.
“I see your point. Then we should split up and meet at Bill’s, although that’s also going to be a bit weird. We can then decide where to go from there.”
“Lynn and Bill both know the circumstances, at least according to Mike, but I can see where it could be a touch awkward. Who goes first?” I inquire.
“My vote is for you.”
“Well, as much as I appreciate it, I’d hate to be a hindrance. After all, it’s your family reunion. So, my thought is to wait here while you meet with them and then organize the town’s defenses. You can then come back here and let me know what the plan is.”
Otter bends over and grimaces as he rubs his leg. “You know, I’m not sure I’ll be able to make it that far. I’m thinking you should go.”
“Hmmm … you know what? I’m thinking we should sidestep the whole ‘meeting at Bill’s’ situation and just go straight to the police station. We drive them out to see the horde, thereby dispensing with the ‘I don’t believe you’ thing,” I say.
“You said we should split up, but then this ‘we’ thing keeps popping up.”
“Fine, lazy-ass, I’ll go.”
“Now, that’s an idea I can get behind,” Otter replies. “I’ll just prop myself up here. You know, to rest my leg.”