Knight of the Dead (Book 4): Realm

by Smorynski, Ron

  He had no choice but to race toward it as the other end was funneling hordes of flailing cannibals toward him. He didn't see a way through as he neared. He got to the cars and saw narrow openings on each side, but it wasn't enough for the bike.

  He fitted the bike as best he could but it wouldn't go through. His legs straddled to it were stuck against the building and one of the cars. Split seconds of indecision wracked his mind, pulsing with a million charges trying to scream for survival. Should he get off the bike and try to squish it through? He knew he couldn’t lift his legs up now and try to pull himself through. He couldn't think. His heart pounded.

  He turned to see the zombie wave crash into him. He was too late. H was about to be slammed and drowned in a sea of zombies. But they crashed more so into the cars stuck at the alley entrance.

  Dad felt the ease of pressure on his legs as the zombies slammed up against the cars, skidding them out. He twisted the throttle and off he went as The Horde poured onto the street, frustrated that they had him in their grasp and then lost him. He drove on, laughing maniacally in freedom.

  He swerved along the wide street, seeing the wave of undead all around him. He was much more skilled now than those first days of this apocalypse. "Don't get cocky," he heard echoing with a shrill laugh in his helm. He drove through crowds of rushing crazies, feeling their weight slap against him and his bike. He corrected and kept his balance, driving through. He burst into the open and drove forth.

  He passed a whole swathe of a neighborhood burnt down. He took to those roads amidst a jungle of black skeletal buildings. Many black spokes, like giant claws reaching, reared up from their ashen graves. Surprisingly, dotted throughout were green trees, somehow surviving the blocks of inferno, something interesting of note.

  He turned at an intersection to look back. This budding horde seemed to dissipate or weaken amidst the burnt carnage. Pouring over the burnt debris, the zombies slowed, crushing one another and rolling to a sludge like movement. Puffs of ash and dusty smoke burst from the weight of them, blinding and obscuring their path before them. Dad didn't care. He drove on.

  He could see up ahead the vast hospital buildings, the Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. His daughters were born there. He remembered both as infants he held in his arms. He remembered the peace and comfort when they were brought forth. Everything was safe: their soft baby skin, soft blankets, chortling professional nurses, and warm rooms. Everything back then was about peace and potential. He shook it off, not wanting to think about what was and what was now for them gone forever. His daughters would not experience that.

  He drove under the giant buildings, still very intact. He wondered about the area. He drove between the twin buildings, covered by a vast center glass building attached to the two. The street wasn't clear, but more clear than he expected. There was a veritable jam of ambulances trying to get into the ER driveways, and a bunch of cop cars.

  The roads were strategically blocked off. Not that that stopped zombies from rushing in and clearing the area of all the living. Dad drove through the cop car blockade easily enough. No zombies came rushing forth. He wondered if he could stop within, get some medical supplies. But his mind had no idea what or where. It wasn't like they had anti-zombie stuff in there, a cure. There were probably many old disabled zombies in there, roaming about as nurses and patients with IVs with their asses exposed in their patient garbs.

  He drove through quietly, letting the space give him a moment. He drove under the sprawling building connecting the two. It was like driving under a massive bridge. His motorcycle engine echoed for a brief moment as he went under. Again, no zombies came rushing out. He looked up to see plenty in the windows, hitting them and wanting to chase him. He snarled.

  He then looked back to where he was driving, and saw the Beverly Center. It was adjacent the medical campus and was the fancy West Hollywood shopping mall.

  There was nothing in there of interest to him, just clothes and luxuries. People could hide out there, but food and water from a few food court places wouldn't last. He was surprised there wasn't a horde lurking about. But with all the to and fro he has done in the area, perhaps he had already led them this way and that way, to their death, or scattered amidst the burnt areas.

  Dad carefully and quietly, as his bike would allow, drove back to Steve and the sheriff's station. He used the burnt sections to his advantage. They had that strong pungent odor. As he drove slowly, he could smell it, the burnt ashen smell enhanced by rains and moisture. It must somewhat confuse and blind the zombies. He was surprised to see The Horde succumb to its odors so quickly but it was a large area. It seemed much of this area, especially the neighborhoods of wood structures and gardens, burnt the most.

  He wasn't sure if he caused this devastation when he rescued Marcus, Stu and their late friend at Fairfax or if this was from other fires. Did it matter?

  He drove back up by the giant emerald buildings. He wasn't sure where Steve was and so kept driving as slow and quietly as possible. There were still zombies, but it was a scattering of crushed and crawling ones. A few limping ones tried to collect so Dad waited till they reached him. He had his sword out and twirled it when necessary.

  He then saw the wafts of smoke pillars and knew where Steve was. He drove there to see Steve setting up a pathway to nearby food stores. He created piles of flaming limbs. In California, things dry quite fast after the rains, especially exposed things, or zombies standing in the streets. Steve used crushed ones, limping ones, hacking at them and piling them, having piles of flames along the way. It took awhile for each pile to get going, but Steve was focused with one hand while holding his sword in the other. A few hopping or crawling zombies were near, and whenever one got close, Steve quickly killed it.

  Dad then saw survivors in the sheriff station. It looked like several cops and workers, a few prisoners perhaps. He figured they were the inebriated or gay wild weekend bender types. All were sober now and working together. Dad had that judgmental assumption of gay, queer, liberal, whatever, but then he realized, by the looks on their face, what did it matter?

  They were desperate and now had hope as they watched a man in armor with a medieval weapon easily dispense the terrifying monsters using a unique attack method, and then start a path of fires. It gave them hope that they had never had, or at least that is what Dad hoped it gave them.

  They were armed to the teeth with guns, but it looked like they learned the hard way that guns versus zombie hordes didn't work. Dad drove up to them. They stared at him, at his armor and his motorcycle.

  “Thank you,” one said hoarsely with a nervous tick.

  They were at a guarded gate, one they were ready to rush in and slam shut if all went horribly awry. Dad looked to Steve. He was still busy down the street.

  “He's getting us water and food,” one said, as he sipped from one of the water bottles Steve must have already given them. They looked emaciated and near death.

  “How'd you guys do it? How'd you guys survive?” one cried.

  Dad stared for awhile at them, how they were once large fellows, cops, desk workers, party goers, but were now not too unlike the zombies, rotting away and lifeless. A spark of hope and life was returning. Dad was glad he argued with Steve, that he pushed him in his bigotry or hatred as gay people called his faith. Dad was glad he got Steve to come out here, and to think of it, even with such bitterness and judgment.

  Dad then thought about these people. Would Steve save them? Of course not, he was not Christian, at least not how Dad judged. A sudden worry flashed that he was condemning these people to a homosexual, a man of lust, a self-serving man. Should Dad save them? Preach the gospel to them?

  Then he heard one, his voice hardened by survival but still gay. "Thank God you two men saved us! Yes."

  Dad realized, oh, these are his people. Of course! They have lived here in West Hollywood and have chosen this life. Dad shrugged off his own fear. This was Steve's place, his people, his kingdom. Dad saw
how busy and excited Steve was, setting up the fires and dealing with the situation.

  “Stay here. He will help you,” Dad said, then walked his idling bike over to Steve.

  24. Goodbye

  “Help me get some supplies, some food and water, to them,” Steve ordered.

  Dad nodded, getting off his bike. In the middle of the road, amidst piled up cars, Dad felt it was somewhat clear. The main group of zombies were led away and those left were maimed, crushed, thrown off by the Horde.

  Dad walked to the bevy of small restaurants and cafes. He walked through and didn't see much to get. There were bottles of liquor, sugared drinks and large bags of chips. That was something. The large restaurant bags of tortilla chips were easy enough. He was in some gay-pride Mexican cantina place. It had rainbow flags mixed in with Mexican fiesta decor. Its colors and decor were silly. He wondered why this place wasn't shut down for 'cultural appropriation'. The gays loved their margaritas.

  Dad shook off his own prejudices and focused. He grabbed two of the large bags and lugged them back out. They weren't heavy but they were clumsy to carry. They needed a cart or something, or to get the survivors out here to help. But they were still across the street at the police station hiding.

  Dad decided to walk over the large bags of chips. It wasn't much but it was something. It seemed to take him forever in his armor to walk alone across the large four lane boulevard. Steve saw him pass and thought as well that this was inefficient. He looked about for ideas. The path was as clear as they were going to get it for awhile. Both knew the zombies would return. They always do. Steve hurried after Dad, toward the sheriff's station.

  Dad looked to Steve as he got closer. “You're in charge,” he said.

  Steve nodded. Dad put the bags down as the survivors hurriedly grabbed them up and took them inside.

  “Who is in charge here?” Steve suddenly asked them.

  They looked at each other. They were a few emaciated survivors. None of them looked ready to affirm whatever it was they were fearful of or whatever may have happened in recent times.

  “Everyone's dead who was,” one finally said, clinging to his empty bottle of water, holding a handgun and wearing an over-sized police vest. He was shaking, probably from lack of nutrition.

  “I'm in charge,” Steve said.

  The survivors gathered at the door, looking at each other, then at Dad and Steve in their armor, well fed, and fully capable of surviving.

  “Or I leave,” Steve said.

  Dad's eyes widened but no one could see it in his helm.

  The survivors’ eyes widened, if that were possible in their wretched form.

  “I am the leader. You do what I say, or we leave you to do whatever is you're doing and survive on your own,” Steve repeated.

  Dad did not say anything, gritting his teeth, even as he saw the fear and desperation in their eyes. It was a mix of once proud people: cops, sheriff station office workers, and a couple of inmates. They were only a dozen, including a few females, all with pretty deranged and on-the-brink looks in their eyes.

  Dad glanced up to see the survivors on the roof, watching, waiting. They waved new signs, “North Stairs Clear” and “Help Us”. Dad gestured to Steve to make sure he knew about them. Dad figured it was his problem to solve.

  “Okay,” one finally cried. The others looked and nodded.

  “You all agree! I lead! You do what I say, and I'll teach you how to survive,” Steve bellowed.

  A few zombies were gathering. A lone fast one was coming up. The survivors began to wail and back away, trying to close the gated door. Steve held it open.

  Dad turned and easily dispensed with the fast one, then several slow ones. He turned as Steve subtly nodded. Dad nodded back.

  “You all agree? I am the leader!?” Steve asked again.

  “Yes! Yes sir! Yes, please! They're coming! We have to hide!” they cried out.

  Dad was afraid he unleashed a beast on them, a bigger evil, Steve and his lusts. Would Steve succumb to his lust and not his love? It flashed through Dad's mind. Steve walked past Dad to his bike.

  Dad kept watch, killing zombies that were coming. There were a few more now, lumbering into the area. It was the barking alerts of the fallen and crushed zombies that had alerted others to return. They were everywhere, scattered far and wide. Dad pondered going out and killing them one by one, laboriously. But this was not his home, not his realm. It was Steve's. He waited there as Steve unbounded the swords and arms.

  Steve took them back to the survivors. He said things to them. Dad wasn't sure. He saw more zombies coming from the west, where he left the Horde. They were spreading out again. Some fast ones must have come back this way.

  The Horde may be a tumultuous vast gathering that chases one, but it leaves in its wake and on its tail a spread of very alert and ravenous creatures. These then spread out for many city blocks, gathering all of the cannibals in the area. It was a perfect system.

  Dad realized he did not lead it far enough away. He had returned rather quickly. The Horde was spreading out again, with thousands upon thousands of feelers, searching for any alert to gather it back together.

  “Steve hurry. They're returning,” Dad grunted.

  Steve looked and ordered them out. “Let's get supplies. Everyone helps,” he ordered.

  Dad wasn't sure this was the right move. Steve didn't seem to fear these ragtag survivors. They all had sophisticated weaponry but held them like they weren't very useful. They looked weak. One stopped to look into Dad's helmet, at his eyes. “Can you help us?”

  “He's in charge,” Dad said, shrugging in his armor.

  “Let's go! Let's go!” Steve ordered.

  They hurried as a small group through the lane of smoke, to the restaurants. Dad stayed back and confronted a large rambling wave of zombies. He stepped beyond the smoke to draw them to him and not the erratic movements of the survivors.

  Dad saw Steve had given several the swords and armbands. They did not hold them confidently nor wear the armbands secure. Steve pushed them to the other side, to the restaurant. “Hurry up! Get as much food and drinks as you can! Get water! Let's go!”

  Steve had to contend with several zombies meeting them at the restaurant. There wasn't much smoke smoldering at that end. Dad swung a bit faster, risking his breath and energy, trying to clear the area and go help. He rushed over, slicing off legs and bashing through limping ones. One of the survivors resorted to firing her handgun at one. She aimed high for the head but couldn't hold it steady enough. The zombie twisted but kept coming. Everyone yelled in fear, knowing the shot would alarm more.

  “What the hell! Get back!” Steve yelled angrily.

  The woman turned and fled back to the station. She fell near a fire, burning her hand. She screamed. Another went to help her. A zombie came through the smoke, blinded but easily attracted to the sound. It grabbed whatever it could and bit, ripping flesh off the person's arm. The helper shrieked as Dad tried to get there in time. He couldn't run fast in his armor and wasn't fully aware of what everyone was doing.

  The helper, the man, crazed in his look tried to hide his wound. Dad was about to strike, but decided to let them solve this. He wasn't the judge, the executioner.

  Steve pushed the others to grab up restaurant sized cans and containers. “Hurry up! We need the food now!”

  “Damnit Steve,” Dad said under his breath. He sliced through several zombies rushing through the smoking piles. The crazed helper with the wound ran back to the prison. No telling what would happen to him. Would there be faith in Jesus? With Steve? Dad chose not to think about their fate.

  Dad quickly grabbed a zombie he felled and tugged its downward fall into a fire, hoping it would inflame the pile more.

  He saw beyond that fast ones were coming. Some were probably the ghouls, the intelligent ones. It was hard to tell until they got close and either attacked ravenously or made some tricky move. Beyond them, he saw rows of zombies forming up
.

  Then Dad saw it, a big one. It walked through the smoke near the sheriff's station. It blocked the few survivors fleeing that way. The woman with the burnt hand screeched. Dad didn't realize she was still close to him. The man bit, at the station, was crying hysterically trying to cover the blood. He left the woman damnit!

  Dad saw that Steve was loading up the rest of the survivors, who were now in sheer panic with supplies. They were all unaware of the horrific situation at the station.

  Dad had to deal with the big one. “Steve!” Dad yelled, waving. Steve looked up but Dad was unsure if he understood. They were a distance from each other and the noises of zombies barking confused their shouts.

  It was big and muscle bound, definitely a body builder. It grabbed the poor woman near him as she tried to run around. It ripped her flesh with powerful grips as she flailed in stunned silence.

  Dad coughed angrily trying to get to her. Damn it to hell! Dad tugged at his armor. He cupped his gauntlet under his arm to free his right hand, then pulled out his 45. He saw the ghouls run for him, not at the others but at him.

  They knew what he was doing, going to shoot the big one. He aimed as best he could as the ghouls charged. The big one was only yards away. It tossed the ripped open woman. She dropped wrong.

  The big one heaved up and down so damn much. It was hard in his helm to see the sights and quickly align the front and rear, to focus on the aim and position the bobbing head on it. He fired but ghouls leapt at his hand, hitting it and knocking him. One bit near his exposed hand. It knew where to bite. Dad used all his lightning reaction, exhausting himself, to protect his hand.

  He folded it under, dropping the gun. He turned away from the ghouls as they tried to keep hold of his arm. But he used his strength and turned to quickly yank his hand back into the gauntlet that was held under his other arm. As he focused on this, the ghouls slammed into him.