Knight of the Dead (Book 4): Realm

by Smorynski, Ron

  When he let his bike coast and kept to minimal bodily movements, many zombies would stare at him but not bark out an alarm. He knew they needed active human movements of the legs, arms, or the sight of the face or the scent of a human to get excited to attack.

  He felt confident he could make it back. He had to adjust to Ronan's new direction and plan, and hoped the others did too. He then realized there was no way Howie could have turned in time, gotten away from this. There was no way he could have turned the Hummer in time.

  He cringed and slammed his fist on the bike in frustration.

  "Damn it!" he screamed in his helmet, just loud enough for him and the angels to hear.

  He had to know. He would drive about and come back down to where Howie and Duanne were driving. He had to know.

  39. The Challenge

  Dad burst through the opening. Did he see another motorcycle there? He wasn't sure if it was just a refraction through his helm or zombies racing by. He had to focus and accelerate. He wanted to get through the opening and give himself some breathing room. There was no telling what gathering of zombies there was beyond the wall of cars. He just came from there and may have built up a bottleneck of zombies on the other side. Slow ones wouldn’t, but a mess of them could topple him, then The Horde would catch him.

  He wanted a little wiggle room to maneuver. The rumble of his bike and The Horde was all around him. Was having a rumbling low throbbing Harley a good idea? It had some benefits, he figured. It felt lower and more stable, though not 'stable', just more so then the sporty bikes. It felt like, if controlled, it could ram into, run over and squash a few zombies at a time. He felt it happen and kept the weight down moving it forward. He imagined it was like a real warhorse, whatever that felt like.

  It wasn't perfect. It wasn't a Godsend school bus or that Hummer, but it had its benefits. It was a motorcycle, fast and able to weave in and out of tight spots. Of course, the motorcycle’s downsides were the noise and less agile turning. He couldn't do some dirt-cross motorcycle turns and wheelies in it. It was less maneuverable and flighty as it were.

  He drove through the opening, throttling hard and feeling the power of his warhorse. He was ready to slam through some zombies, but none were there. He saw openings up ahead, to keep The Horde going north, away from the school and finishing up the plan.

  He swerved in and out feeling The Horde behind him. He sensed the crashing of the wall of cars and trucks, their smashing and turning over and over as The Horde swarmed after him. He knew they were clearing the area so Howie and Randall could drive through.

  It was working and he was smiling with gritted teeth. As soon as he cleared this area, taking The Horde up through Hollywood, up to the 101 Freeway and out of here, he'd find another exit and come back.

  He thought blissfully of his options. He would get a good look at the freeway, maybe clear some of it up with this Horde. Or make a quick sneaky turn into the Hollywood Hills, slowing The Horde within the ravines and rough terrain. He thought about how Randall and Sean went through there before. How they commented on and asked the Lord for forgiveness, for leading The Horde into the homes and hideaways of scattered survivors.

  These were the hills east of where he just was, when he found Melany and that hilltop gated community with guards. In that area, the homes weren't as big and the hills were a bit tighter.

  He turned through the maze of cars, palm trees, and tour buses onto Hollywood Boulevard. It had cleared areas from their goings back and forth. He turned onto the wide street with its epic scenery.

  He passed parked tour buses and crammed cars, all stuck there since that fated first morning. He drove through, noticing the palm trees and plants returning, like it was becoming some tropical alcove. It had a lagoon like feel.

  He then saw standing in the middle of the street one of the big ones. It was walking toward him, as if it knew he was coming. Dad straightened up to discern clearly in the midst of all this chaos. The Horde was behind him somewhere. Zombies had gathered in the area, hearing the rumble of his engine.

  But this one big zombie stood there, waiting. Dad gritted his teeth. It felt like an ambush, planned. A chill ran through him up his spine. He saw room to maneuver around the lumbering hulk. Yes, it looked bigger than the other bigger ones, almost like the Incredible Hulk. Maybe it was not that big, not that extreme, but still, hulking, gorilla like. Its arms, rotting and bulbous, almost reached the ground. It was darker too, in some grey mottled decay. Yet, it had muscles and growth, like it was a mutant of some kind.

  Dad couldn't help himself. He felt the challenge. He heard in his head his wife begging him, "Go around! Please!" He saw Lena shuddering, "Go around Dad!" He knew Charlotte was aiming her rifle, as if an angel on some building far above him was aiming down. But they were not there. He was there, alone, facing this beast, driving ever closer. He felt his pride and arrogance rise within.

  He hated that this big one was there, that it wasn't random nor stupid. It gave him shivers to see it look at him, like an evil demonic beast and not just some dumb instinctual zombie. He carefully pulled out his large sword, his claymore, as he fumbled to steady the drive. He had to angle his armor enough to pull out the two handed blade. It was well made and worth it.

  He waved it in his left hand. He knew he didn’t have the right strength and coordination to swing from his left. He would use the movement of his motorcycle to give it momentum, to swing along side and decapitate this demonic beast.

  It was all split seconds of harrowing anguish to decide. There wasn't enough time to think or plan, to train and to get this right. He felt the faltering of his drive from the slippery rot of the road and the slight swerves to correct as he drove toward it. Everything visually seemed in shutter fast frame mode through his helm's visor, through the holes. Everything flickered like a stop frame fantasy.

  The zombie beast bounded forward. Dad corrected his warhorse Harley to get along side, raising his sword, ready for the slash. But in those rapid moments the bike, the beast, Dad, the swerve, the crash, things hit hard and folded on both sides. Dad didn't drive hard enough. The bike merely wobbled and immediately went under as the weight of the beast twisted his handlebars. It's limbs and torso folded over the bars and slammed into him.

  He couldn't swing his sword as he felt an instant clobbering, and the momentous gravity seemed to suck him under the beast and the bike. He skidded along feeling a concussive blow through his helm. He felt the grating tear and screech of asphalt on his limbs and back, across the armor. This is how knight's fall.

  He kicked his legs, somehow, to get out from under the bike as it wobbled and careened. He rolled free, feeling the weight of the momentum give him space to leap up. But it wasn't a leap up as much as a tumble up and slam into a car. He fell on all fours, as his blade skidded next to him like an enchanted familiar. He was still in the fight and his sword was with him.

  He did not know if he broke anything, but he had to get up quickly. He lifted himself with much weight and shock. His limbs shook just a bit, as if the muscles and nerves will still dizzy, still reeling. He steadied himself, lifting his claymore and focusing on its power, its courage.

  The beast charged forth, but oddly, not at him. It charged like a gorilla beast slamming into his warhorse. It slammed down hard on the chrome and pipes and handlebars. The Harley seemed to react and bounce, turning its head like a crying, neighing warhorse.

  Dad stared stunned for a moment, not moving and just yards away from the giant as it slammed both fists mightily destroying his bike. It was not slow like the other large ones. This beast didn’t seem as dumb or as stiff as the others, and now, it was forever trapping Dad, the horseless knight. He could not flee.

  Dad stared in awe in a rising fear. Something took over and he spun, running. He fled as quickly as he could. He was sure the gorilla beast would leap up on a car then bound atop and crush him.

  Zombies were all around him, coming in, some fast, most slow. Dad stumbled
through them, through the cars and buses and vans. He slashed instinctively, just getting through, just fumbling through.

  Most definitely the beast was making chase. He felt a van suddenly shift as he ran between it and a car. He heard the roar of the angry giant, that the soul it sought to destroy had ran away after such a confrontation.

  Dad was not ready to fight this thing, not with the heavy claymore surrounded by zombies and The Horde. It was coming in and flooding the street, and pushing vehicles and debris out of its way.

  He fled frantic, any which way. Slicing and severing as he went, cutting through zombies and pounding them with his gauntlet. He had not yet grasped the long blade with both fists. He was in a delirium. He used it more like a defensive spear than a great sword.

  His worst threat at the moment was tripping over those he instantly killed and his clanging blade. Zombies fell before him as he bashed and butted. He tried to lift the sword but ended up dragging it behind him. He used every vehicle and car, every truck and bus, racing around them, rolling over hoods and jogging along buses to confuse the chasing beast.

  The zombie beast leapt and bounded. It crashed atop a car that sunk in. It ripped its way out. Then it collided into zombies and rolled with them, smashing their heads and limbs as it pounded to get upright and begin its charge anew.

  Dad was exhausted, his exertion taking its toll. He slowed, even at the risk of being overtaken. Otherwise, he would altogether collapse and be unable to fight. He tried to get the blade up. It dragged heavily on the concrete scraping behind him as he stumbled away.

  He slowed and breathed, knowing to keep something left when the inevitable slam came. He was sweating profusely, unable to wipe his dripping brows. Would he get dehydrated? His mouth was dry, as sweat dripped around his lips.

  He had a moment to look back and see the beast throwing zombies aside as it bounded along the Hollywood Walk of Fame. It bounded over the dirty dusty grimy stars of long lost celebrities.

  Behind that loomed the ever growing Horde, smashing and pushing aside everything as it focused in on the beast. It looked like a massive churning mud slide, defying gravity. It had a thousand limbs rolling and crawling across its surface.

  Dad turned in a maddening rage. He was so angry. It was unfair. He bit his lip in rage as he fled. He realized he went into the darkness to hide. He slammed through a glass door. It was already damaged but he did more, breaking and shattering more as he tripped and stumbled in. His blade got caught or something. He fumbled awkwardly to get it up and realized he was in a dark place.

  40. The Roosevelt

  He was in a vast nostalgic lobby. It was the Hollywood Roosevelt. He had been here before, a few rare times with his wife, having a drink at their mixer bars. The place was one of the last vestiges of old Hollywood, where the Oscar Parties were first held. The lobby was designed with a massive wood style, a dark place, with that austere old Hollywood feel.

  Today, it was like a ruined haunted mansion. He stumbled through the slick tiled floor over dead things and broken furniture. Something happened here, but it was long over. He saw the bars and the arrays of alcohol. He might have to come by again sometime soon. Hah, he laughed in his delirium.

  He saw the wide stairs in the back that led up. Yes up, into the halls of this hotel. Up to the hotel floors and hidden away from the hysteria of the horrendous!

  He heard the beast crash through the doorway, through the broken glass doors. It roared such a damning sound Dad almost felt paralyzed. But Dad had the Lord! No demonic beast was going to curse him!

  Strewn across the Romanesque archways or maybe they were Spanish - who cares - were leather couches and fancy ottomans. Dad weaved around them and the columns, confusing the stupid beast. It got angry and roared, tossing things out of its way.

  Dad took the stairs up, dragging his claymore and limping accordingly. He felt his old knees warn him. The armor was heavy and his limbs were tired. But he did it nonetheless. Each step was heavy. But as he got going, his limbs accepted it and pushed him on. He hurried up hearing the damn thing jumping toward him.

  At the top, he turned to see it lumbering up with great speed. It roared as it neared, knowing it was within reach. Dad knew swinging his sword with whatever strength he had left, at the tough hide and sinewy flesh, was useless.

  He held it like a javelin: one hand in the back and the other guiding the front. Just as the beast leapt up with great claws and a jowl of a demonic hyena, Dad thrust the claymore into its mouth.

  It gurgled and stepped back away from the claymore is Dad pulled it out. Was it in pain? Dad was stunned. He had not fought any zombie or beast yet that reacted to his attack. This one seemed to.

  He hurriedly grasped the claymore with both hands and charged, swinging mightily. The blade hacked into the beast, into its sunken head. It cut flesh and skull as the thing was still hacking up blood. Dad cut deep into the beast's shoulder. It contorted and rotated its shoulder and arm, landing the weight of its limb atop the stuck claymore.

  Dad felt the weight of the claws and nearly fell over but slammed up against the wretched bloated thing. It's eye squeezed against Dad's helm, it turned, looking through the visor's holes, glancing to and fro at Dad. Their eyes met.

  "Raarrrgghh!!" Dad roared. He found the momentum to slice from under, cutting the giant arm as he slid the claymore out. It sliced just as easily as it hacked. It was a great sword.

  Dad stepped back proud of the immense damage he had inflicted on it. Then a truck of an arm, the other arm, exploded up, slamming him. He and all his armor went airborne just a moment as he was bashed and flung sideways. He slammed hard onto the ground and slid screeching. He had to get up. He knew it. He couldn't tell where he was or where his limbs were. He was in a fetal position.

  Through his sweat, delirium and helm, he saw the blur of the beast turn to charge. It rambled after him like a gorilla on front paws. But the left arm gave. It was the one he sliced the shoulder on. It buckled and the beast fell right in front of him. It was like a fall of tumbling stones.

  He tucked his legs then quickly figured out the direction of gravity and rolled up onto all fours as the beast wriggled its giant limbs around him. It grasped his leg. He was able to lift up with the claymore as his cane, horrible technique but desperate in the moment. He turned and swung down on the limb. He hacked and hacked.

  "Grarrggghh! Die you bastard! Die by almighty God, die!!!"

  The limb separated. The claymore hit tile and clanged as the beast roared and lifted, ripping off the last tear of flesh on the arm from his body. It used the stump for an arm.

  Dad raised the claymore again but the beast threw Dad back with its ferocity. Dad used whatever exertion he had left to stay up, stumbling backward in a succession of quick steps. He hit the wall whip-lashing just a bit. His heavy helm and steel armor kept him solid.

  He focused everything on the Lord and on hope. He focused the claymore like a javelin again, knowing the inevitable charge of this demonic beast. He jammed it into its neck, holding firm as the beast rammed into him.

  Its extended jaw clamped down on his shoulder armor. It had the strength to buckle it, but not in this state. Dad twisted and yanked his great blade side to side as it sunk between the neck and collar bone. It squidged in, squeaking as it sunk.

  The beast gurgled and slammed at Dad with its powerful, heavy, yet broken limbs. It scraped and ripped, nearly pulling his armor off. Its weakened nails on the sliced arm still dug painfully through the edges of the armor as it scraped viciously. The wounded limb eventually flopped off his armor. The damn thing was finally weakening.

  Dad rolled his shoulders with ferocity, twisting them off. He kept one hand churning the sword down along the thing's spinal cord and nerves. He pulled out his shiv, the one all survivors carried for such a purpose. When pinned by a beast, it was difficult to swing with a sword, but not to stab repeatedly with a shiv, a small blade. He slammed his shiv into the soft of the neck over and over. H
e roared with the full vigor of a man created in the Lord's image. The damnable bloated zombie, once human, now contorted and grown out like some demonic hulk, gurgled in its paltry death.

  It slumped. It did not give out a breath of life, for it had none. It just slumped. Dad continued to tweak and shirk the blade, even as its rotted teeth faltered against his armor. He stood there between its weight and the wall. It felt like a five hundred pound bar of weights was across him. He could barely move save the blade stuck in its flesh.

  "Grraaaghhh!!!" Dad yelled, feeling constricted. He twisted, rolling side to side. Finally, the beast sagged giving him some room. Dad scooted and scooted with much exertion. Then he twisted it to flop away as he freed himself.

  Zombies came. They seemed slowed by seeing their lord, their master dead before them. They came up slowly along the stairs.

  Dad could see below that the lobby swelled with zombies. It was The Horde squeezing and squirming in, destroying it all, even the bars. Dad bummed. He really wanted a drink from one of those bars.

  That moment of humor gave him a breath of fresh air.

  A ghoul, amongst the zombie crowding, snarled and leapt up after him, awakening the rest to follow.

  Dad, regaining strength, breathing steadily, swung and decapitated the ghoul. He kicked the body down causing the zombies to tumble and falter. He realized the claymore was too much. He swooped it around and knew where to feel for the scabbard, sliding it in. He was keeping that. He left his other blade in his scabbard for now. He wanted to focus on retreating.