Ragnarok Rising: The Awakening (Book One of The Ragnarok Rising Saga)

by D. A. Roberts

  We found twenty cases of MRE’s and twice that many cases of bottled water. There were thousands of rounds for the AK-47’s and for the .45’s, as well. Whoever the hell those guys were, they were well prepared. But why take the risk they did to hit us? It was probably for the gear and ammo. We’d never know for sure, though. Dead men rarely explain themselves.

  “It looks like the zombies are busy eating the jerks we just shot,” said Southard, peaking through a crack in the window. “I don’t think they know we’re in here.”

  “Then let’s keep it that way,” I said, quietly. “Let’s try to be quiet and not attract attention to ourselves.”

  “Good plan,” said Spec-4. “But it doesn’t change the fact that we’re trapped in here.”

  “For now,” I agreed. “Let’s pull ourselves together and clean our wounds. Once we re-evaluate our situation, I think we’ll be alright. So long as they don’t surround us, we can look for a way out.”

  “We could call for a rescue,” suggested Southard, shrugging.

  “Do you really think they can get to us?” asked Spec-4, hopefully.

  “Maybe,” I said, “but let’s save that as a last resort. I haven’t given up yet. Besides, fortune favors the bold. We’re going to get ourselves out of this.”

  Spec-4 opened a bottle of water and guided me towards the sink.

  “Lean over,” she said. “We need to clean up that wound and see how bad it is.”

  She proceeded to dump the water over my face and head, and then dabbed at the wound with a towel. Then she dumped more water on my head and repeated the process. After three times of dousing me with water, she applied pressure to the wound with the towel.

  “It’s pretty bad, Wylie,” she said, softly. “You really need stitches.”

  “Where’s EMT when you really need him?” I muttered, jokingly.

  “Safely back at the jail, by now,” said Southard, softly.

  He was still standing by the window looking out through a crack in the boards, weapon in hand. I could tell by the grim set of his jaw that his temper hadn't subsided any. I just hoped that he wasn't angry at me. I doubted that he was, but it was better safe than sorry. I much preferred that his ire be directed at the assholes that had just shot us up and destroyed our ride.

  “Well, since we’re fresh out of medics, doctors and emergency rooms,” said Spec-4, “I think that we’re going to have to improvise.”

  She dug into her pack and pulled out a tube of crazy glue. I cringed and clenched my jaw. I knew this trick and was definitely not looking forward to it. I think I actually preferred getting the stitches.

  “This is an old soldier’s trick,” she said, smiling. “But it’s going to hurt like hell.”

  “I know,” I said. “I’m an old soldier.”

  “Emphasis on the old,” said Southard, nodding at me.

  “Kiss my…OUCH!” I exclaimed as Spec-4 started applying the glue.

  “Not too loud, there tough guy,” said Southard. “You’ll attract the zombies.”

  I bit my lip, both to stop the cursing and to keep me from cussing out Southard. I settled for flipping him off with both hands. If you’ve never had a wound sealed with super-glue, I don’t recommend it. It felt like I was having my skin welded together. It seemed like it took a week, but in all actuality it couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds.

  “There,” said Spec-4, “that should hold it. You’re going to have one hell of a scar, though.”

  “Aw, shit,” I said. “There go my Hollywood good looks. I was going to be the next Brad Pitt, too.”

  Southard laughed at me, which got him flipped off again. Spec-4 just smiled. All things considered, I wasn’t going to complain about a scar. By rights, I should have been dead. I would’ve been if it hadn’t been for that vest. I really had to thank the person that designed those things, assuming they weren’t a zombie already.

  I spent the next few minutes removing my gear and body armor so Spec-4 could check my back. I was going to have some nice bruises to show for it, but no major wounds. Spec-4 removed her armor and checked herself, as well. She’d been hit in the stomach. All things considered, we were both far luckier than I expected. Not that getting shot is lucky. It was quite the opposite, really. Neither of us was dead and that was good enough.

  “It’s bruised, for sure,” she said. “But it doesn’t feel all that bad.”

  “Good,” I replied, smiling. “Chuck, are you ok?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said. “I never took a hit.”

  “Lucky bastard,” I muttered.

  I grabbed a couple more bottles of water and finished cleaning the blood off of my face. Then I dried off, as best I could. By the time I was finished with that, Southard returned with fresh clothes.

  “I found some t-shirts and some jackets in the bedrooms that look like they might fit us,” said Southard. “These guys must have bought out the Army Surplus store. It looks like we got ambushed by some survival nuts.”

  “Find anything good?” I asked, struggling out of my bloody t-shirt.

  Then I pulled on one of the clean ones he’d brought in with him. It was black with a famous comic book skull logo on the front. I thought it was kind of appropriate. The irony was sweet. Although I had to admit, I didn’t feel particularly heroic right at that moment.

  “Yeah, military fatigues, field jackets, boots and rucksacks,” he said. “Plus it looks like they had more weapons in the cabinet. Three more shotguns, a lever action Henry and a couple bolt actions.”

  “Wow,” said Spec-4. “It sure was nice of them to set us up with a supply base.”

  “I could have done without the part where we got shot and lost our ride,” I added, frowning. "That part kinda sucked."

  “True,” said Spec-4. “But we did get some nice gear out of the deal.”

  “It doesn’t change the fact that we’re trapped,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Maybe not,” said Southard, grinning. “Do you know how to drive a stick?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Why?”

  “Because there’s an old Ford Bronco in the garage,” said Southard “It looks like a four speed, with four wheel drive. If we can find the keys, I’ll see if it’ll start.”

  I started to head towards the door to the garage, but stopped when the room spun.

  “Are you ok?” asked Spec-4.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m just a little dizzy. It must be the head-wound.”

  Spec-4 dug out her first aid kit and opened it. Then she handed me a bottle of water and some ibuprofen. I accepted them with a smile and washed them down. My throat protested the passage and my stomach heaved at the new arrivals. It took me a few seconds to make sure it was going to stay down.

  “Thanks,” I said, grimacing. “I’ll be fine. Just give me a few minutes.”

  “Take your time,” she said. “If you start getting nauseous or really sleepy, let me know.”

  “I will,” I promised, “but I think I’ll be ok.”

  I started to take another step when the room spun rapidly and I had the sensation of falling. Then the room went black. The next thing I knew, I was laying on a bed and the room was dark. Spec-4 was asleep next to me with her head on my shoulder. In the dim light of a battery powered lantern, I could see Southard pacing by the window in the next room.

  I knew I’d passed out, but I had no idea how for how long. It must have been hours, though. It was mid-day when I’d blacked out. I decided to take a quick mental inventory of myself before I tried to sit up. My head hurt like hell and my mouth felt like I’d been drinking stagnant pond water. I also felt weak and more than a little nauseous. I was one massive ache from head to toe.

  I knew that I had to get back in the fight. I couldn’t afford to be otherwise. If I was going to get us through this, I had to pull it together. I didn’t have time to be sick or injured. If I wasn’t able to function, then I was a liability and I wouldn’t let that happen. I had too many people
depending on me. Nothing was going to stop me from going after my family. Not zombies, not redneck survivalists, and certainly not a damned headache.

  I groaned as I tried to sit up. My head spun and I nearly threw up.

  “Are you alright,” whispered Spec-4, sitting up slowly.

  “I think I just scrambled my brains,” I replied, holding my head.

  “How would we notice?” whispered Southard, grinning.

  I started to come back with something smart, when I was stopped cold by something slamming into the door.

  “Shit!” hissed Southard, and ran to the crack to peek out of the window.

  He looked around trying to determine just how many there were, all the while they kept hitting the door. It seemed to me that they were just reacting to the sound instead of actually trying to attack something. If they had actually seen us, they would be hitting the door with much more intensity. It seemed almost like that they were trying to scare something into revealing itself.

  “There are five or six of them at the door,” he whispered. “They must have heard us.”

  “Can they get inside?” I asked, reaching for my weapons that were lying on the table beside me.

  “I don’t think so,” whispered Southard, shaking his head.

  “Any more of them notice?” asked Spec-4, quietly.

  “Not so far,” whispered Southard.

  Suddenly, we heard the blood-curdling call of a Shrieker pierce the night. It was a little ways away from us and the beating on the door immediately ceased. A few seconds later we heard a gunshot. It sounded loud enough to be a shotgun blast. It couldn’t have been more than a block away. Instantly, the Shrieker fell silent. Someone had just engaged the dead.

  “They’re moving away,” whispered Southard.

  “I wonder who set off the Banshee?” asked Spec-4, softly.

  “I don’t know, but I feel sorry for them,” said Southard, returning to the room. “There’s a shit-load of dead moving that direction.”

  Suddenly, from up near the Mega-mart, we could hear all hell break loose. It sounded like multiple shooters were firing on the zombies. The volume of gunfire was impressive. There had to be close to a dozen shooters. I could even make out automatic weapons fire. From the distinct sounds, I guessed multiple shooters with an assortment of weapons.

  “Someone is making a run on the Mega-mart,” saidSouthard.

  “Should we go help them?” asked Spec-4, looking concerned.

  “Whoever it is, they sound like they’re better armed than we are,’ I replied. “The best thing we can do is stay put. We’ll give them cover if they run this way.”

  “I’ll keep an eye out for survivors,” said Southard.

  After a few minutes, all was quiet again. The gunfight was over and silence returned to the night. The majority of the zombies in the area had headed off towards the sound of the fighting. Not knowing who it was that had hit the Mega-mart, I still silently wished them luck. If there were as many zombies as I expected there to be, they may not have made it out of there. Instead of looting the place, they may have just joined the opposition.

  “Looks like most of the dead have moved off,” whispered Southard, peeking through a gap in the boards on the window.

  “If we stay quiet, we should be fine until sun-up,” I said. “We’ll make our move then. Until then, we should all try to get some rest.”

  I lay back down next to Spec-4 and settled onto the pillow. Southard grabbed a blanket and got comfortable on the couch in the living room. I was asleep in moments. I was exhausted and needed the rest. Hell, we all did. I had horrible dreams of being eaten alive by a zombie that looked like my wife.

  Chapter Eleven

  Ghost Town

  “Fortune favors the brave.”

  - Publius Terrance

  05 April

  I awoke well after sunrise, bathed in sweat. Both Southard and Spec-4 were still asleep, so I got up quietly and headed into the bathroom. I checked the sink and found that there was still water pressure. Then I availed myself of the facilities. I emerged from a cold shower, feeling almost human. I almost didn’t recognize my face in the mirror.

  The jagged wound on my face was held together with super glue. It ran from about two inches above my right eye to just above the left side of my mouth. It was definitely going to make one hell of a scar. My eyes were sunken and drawn and I felt like one big bruise. I turned and checked my back in the mirror. There was a bruise about the size of a small pizza in between my shoulder blades. It was about the same color as an eggplant.

  I dried off and put on fresh clothes. Fortunately, there was an ample supply of military surplus clothing. I pulled on a pair of black BDU pants and a clean t-shirt. Lifting my arms above my head to put on the shirt was a new experience in pain. Once the shirt was in place, I dug around in the medicine cabinet and found a large bottle of pain reliever. I washed two down with a cupped handful of water and stuck the rest of the bottle in my cargo pocket.

  By the time I left the bathroom, the others were awake. Spec-4 was making coffee on a camp stove in the kitchen. She’d also made breakfast. It wasn’t much more than powdered egg sandwiches, but I wasn’t in the mood to complain. I wolfed down two while the coffee finished brewing. Southard was checking the windows while scarfing down a couple sandwiches of his own. I nearly choked when I noticed that Spec-4 was covering hers with ketchup.

  “Tell me you’re not going to eat those like that?” I said, making a disgusted face.

  “Absolutely,” she replied. “I put ketchup on everything, if I can.”

  “I’ll stick with the hot sauce,” I replied, dousing my eggs with the fiery liquid.

  “Eat as many as you want,” said Spec-4, grinning. “There are plenty more where those came from.”

  She was gesturing at about a dozen boxes of powdered eggs that were on the counter.

  “What’s the situation?” I whispered, nodding as Chuck came back into the room.

  “Not good,” he replied. “There’s about a dozen milling around the front yard, but none of them seem to have noticed us.”

  “Let’s hope it stays that way,” muttered Spec-4.

  I grabbed a cup of the coffee she’d been brewing and started sipping it. It wasn’t half bad and I nodded my approval. Southard and Spec-4 both poured themselves a cup and we sipped in silence for a while.

  “You know what these sandwiches need?” asked Southard.

  “Cheese,” I replied, smiling.

  “Ketchup,” said Southard, grinning.

  “Now there’s a man after my own heart,” said Spec-4, grinning.

  “Or better yet, hot sauce,” he added, reaching for the bottle beside me.

  “My man,” I said, handing him the red bottle.

  Spec-4 mimed throwing up and we all chuckled. After we finished eating, I felt marginally better. The nausea had mostly subsided and the headache had faded to a dull throb. My face hurt every time I chewed, though. It was going to be a while before that wound healed. I just hoped that the superglue held. If it didn’t, I wasn’t sure it could be stitched up after all this time.

  “We need to find the keys to that Bronco,” I said, softly.