The Nameless Survivor (Valkyrie)

by Hawk, J. K.

  They were dormant, some sort of undead hibernation, simply swaying in place like saplings in the wind. Their eyes were frozen solid, shriveled grapes lost in a dark cavity, blind to the world. I had never seen them quite like this, so... still. However we all knew, they were listening, and maintaining silence was to be the hardest task. Carefully we crept past, around, and through them. The forest floor was dry as a bone, we had to place each step with delicate perfection. One small twig snap, and it would have been all over for us.

  There were moments of close calls, where we wandered too close, brushing slightly against their arm or backside. They would shudder for a moment, sniff the air, and then resume their arcane trance. The cold had done well to subdue our scent, however the occasional snarl or shrill, sent shivers down our spines, almost provoking us to run. Diligently we pushed on, holding our breaths as we zig-zagged through the dead. This herd had fared well over the years, most still held their human appearance, aside from the gray skin and faded eyes. However there were a few who showed their age, wasted and decayed, only a hard and blackened tissue encased their carcass.

  This herd was made up of post-humans from all walks of life; farmers, fishermen, toothless rednecks and even a couple woman who appeared to have been pregnant when they had turned. I could see it in her eyes, Mia had become distraught at the sight of them. Afraid that she may one day join them, and her child would be forever trapped within her bowels of hell.

  It was a congregation of the hardworking, god-fearing people of New-England, now nothing more than puppets looking for their next feast. Only Mother Nature’s wrath had taken away their capability of seeing what was right in front of them. A smorgasbord of fresh meat, just within arm’s reach. Thankfully, as it appeared, Charon had accepted my penance and leashed his hounds.

  We cleared the forest just before dusk, and the emptiness of No-Man's Land lay before us. We trudge through it in the hopes that this will all come to an end. Tonight we camp alongside the road, and await the sun's grace to complete our unfortunate pilgrimage. A feast of roasted crow fills our belly’ this evening, churning nauseously with as I write this. I detest to think of the parasite burrowing through our stomachs right now, but it was still good meal, a necessary one.

  Heather and I indulged in some of the hotel liquor I still had stowed away in my pack. She sipped graciously on the small bottle of gin, I however sucked down a couple bottles of rum without hesitation. The warmth of the booze is inviting, but mere mockery against the cold that bears down on us. In unison we shiver, our bodies fighting to keep us alive, at least for one more night.

  3rd Day, 6th Hunter's Moon;

  Relief, content, and pure jubilation is all that we hoped for this morning, but as usual, constant and unrelenting misery is all life has to offer. Success means nothing when the prize is an empty bottomless pit of despair, we are truly forsaken. Today, I hope that there is a God, I hope that he hears my words of heresy. God is nothing more than a coward, a juvenile and brutish oppressor, damn him.

  Marky was not faring well this morning, pale, lethargic, and still not even the simplest word slipped his lips. Heathers optimism had faded through the night, replaced with concern and desperation, but the sight of him did put haste in her step as she dragged Marky sluggishly behind her by the hand. We followed directly behind them, no one spoke, and no one believed that this day would end well.

  I could feel Heathers distress as she pressured her son to pick up the pace, but he was just too week. I fear somewhere in his subconscious he had given up, the horrors he has endure have beaten his soul to the point of surrender, his body was shutting down. Not because of sickness, nor because of physical strain, he has simply given up. Heather knew it as well, although she would never admit to it, instead she held desperately to hope. Seeing her struggle to keep him moving, determined to keep him alive, I stepped up and lifted the boy onto my back.

  We could already smell the salty-sweet ocean air which meant we were close. Yet still; there wasn't a single scouting party, no security forces, no refugees, not even the infected. A seemingly safe stretch of land, and no life to speak of. Only the high-pitch squawking of gulls and the disheartening caw of the crows welcomed us to Rockland. The presumed land of promise.

  We reached the fort by mid-morning, just as the sun broke over the monumental fort walls. It was an amazing site to behold, the barrier appeared to surround the entire bay, cutting it off from the rest of the mainland. Behind the walls was nothing more than a small narrow of land that curved around the ocean like a crescent moon. The fortification is a rising testament to the past. Large Concrete slabs, crushed vehicles and rusted cargo containers all stacked and pieced together like a giant jigsaw puzzle. All in all it rose a good fifty feet over our heads, a Great Wall of Salvation.

  As we reached the front gates I lowered Marky to the ground, to either side of us rested unmanned armored Humvees, both equipped with their own large gun mounted to the roof. A sight that gave us all some much needed relief, we disregarded the face there were no soldiers, nor anyone within the watchtowers that rose another ten feet above the walls. It all seemed as empty, just like the last few miles through No-Man's land. Then there was the ominous silence, too quiet to be a sanctuary for the living. The only noise came from the crashing of waves upon the rocks, and the chatter of sea birds. I could see it in Heather's face, she too had a bad feeling, but neither of us spoke of it. For the sake of Marky and Mia, why worry them before we were entirely sure that we had reached another dead-end.

  The sign on the gate read; “Global Federation of Survivors, Site 8-A, Fort Rockland.” We were definitely at the right place, even though it felt dreadfully wrong. Still, I kept my doubts reserved and I stepped up to the gate with my hand raised and pounded hard onto the cold hard steel. The repetitive clang reverberated across the gate and run out into the salty air like a suicidal dinner-bell.

  “Hello!” I called out, Mia immediately grabbing hold of my arm in fear.

  Unfortunately, as I expected, there was no response. Heather approached the gate and pointed to the crease between the two large steel doors. It was a simple latch, just pull then slide, accessible from both sides. Simple for the living but impossible for the dead, at least for most of them. Heather grabbed one door, while I grabbed the other and pulled. Slowly they crept open releasing a forlorn and pitiful groan that echoed throughout the street. A flock of gulls and crows instantly evacuated the fort at the loud rumble of the gates. Their wings stirred the putrid air and cast shadows of death upon us.

  Before us lay the ghastly site of a rotting mosaic; blood, bones, and decaying flesh strewn about. Everyone was dead, as if a mystical horde had fallen from the sky then vanished into thin air. The frozen flesh and blood, still as red as they day they were spilled, meant that this site was over run no more than a week ago. And yet, the only corpses, were the lifeless remains of those too masticated for the virus to take hold, or the ones who met the business end of a gun. They, were the lucky ones.

  Our hearts grew heavy with discontent, this was not the salvation we had hoped for. It didn't make sense, none of it. It had to of been an outbreak from within, from one of the survivors. There was just no way the dead could scale those walls, and with the gates locked there was no other possibility. The oversight of one guard or even a GFS medical examiner is all it would take to conquer Fort Rockland.

  The bay beyond the narrow strip of land is still littered with boats moored tightly to all the fishing docks. And a barrier of barges and yachts, strung together like a chain was all that closed off the bay from the open ocean. To the far end of the boat-barrier stretches an extensive breakwater that reconnects to land further down the bay. A wall of large granite blocks along with a small white light-house to guide boats around its furthest point. The lamp itself was still illuminated, however the unnatural red hue foretold a bloody end of a loyal keeper.

  All hope was lost, and no one spoke a word. We stood in disbelief at the gate and stari
ng into our empty salvation. What do we do now? What could we do? So much time and energy wasted on reaching a fool’s paradise. Thankfully, after a long perplexing moment, Heather approached me and finally broke the depressing silence.

  “Where are the infected?”

  “I have no idea.” I responded, “Something is not right, I think we should leave.”

  “Where too? We have no food?”

  “There must be food here, let’s look around first.”

  “I don’t know, staying here too long may not be wise.”

  “Then we should hurry.” I paused for a moment, unsure of what to say next. “We need to find secure shelter soon, Mia can't walk much more, neither can Marky.” She nodded and walked over to her fading son, coaxing him to help search for supplies. We didn't search for too long, luckily Heather had found a small reserve of non-perishables in one of the shipping containers. A few MRE's, a box of Ramen-Noodles, and a couple gallons of clean water. Enough to last a few more weeks, if that.

  While the others are packing what supplies we found, I decided to sit here and rest a moment. Aside from the massacre before us, there is a sense of content within me. Something from my past, memories of family trips to the coast, or spending the mornings before class jogging along the Charles River. The smell of the salt-water, the cold breeze that raises the hair on my arms, even the gulls circling and squawking above us. Or maybe it is content in our dilemma, content in our demise. I am so tired, tired of running, tired of surviving. Tired of this infection, of this fear that haunts our every moment. And in this moment, this moment of content, I beg for death. I beg for an end right here, right now. An end to all of – this...

  conclusion;

  (1) I nodded over at Heather, it was time to go, and she did not hesitate to collect Marky and head back towards us. Mia was already on her feet and eager to head out, although she branded a brave face, I knew she was scared like the rest of us. I am sure she realizes that we still have on more dilemma, one more question that had not been answered. Where do we go?

  “I was thinking of Route one, head south, maybe find a boarded up home to take refuge in.” Heather suggested.

  “I was thinking more of a hospital, for Mia.” I remarked.

  “Hospitals have a lot of dark corridors, may not be safe.”

  “Nowhere is safe.” I stated.

  “What about the islands?” Mia asked as she pointed out towards the distance land masses.

  “Brilliant, Mia” I exclaimed, “Hemlock Isle!” There was a moment of silence.

  “An island? I am sure others have spread the virus there too.” She said with pessimism.

  “Not Hemlock,” I protested. “It’s a wildlife sanctuary, no one was allowed to even visit. No ports, no roads, only rocky coastline and thick hemlock groves. It will be tricky getting ashore but it would be safe, it could be a haven for us.”

  “Where will we stay? How would we survive the winter?”

  “Wild game should be in abundance. We will just have to bust ass to build a makeshift shelter to get us through until spring.”

  “Well, it’s not like I have a better idea.” she muttered.

  Promptly we grabbed what supplies we had and worked our way through the docks, for a boat with enough fuel to make the two hour trip. It didn't take long to find our chariot, The Down-Eastah, a small passenger ferry full of fuel and no keys required. It was perfect. I immediately began to familiarize myself with the controls, as best I could without a manual, they appeared simple enough. Heather and Mia loaded our meager supplies and began to settle in down on deck.

  Nova on the other hand persistently barked at the anchored mass of boats in the bay, like they were a massive horde marching towards us. I called out to her to hush, but it took Mia's hand around her snout to finally ease her barrage. Nova has become quite paranoid, and at times turns quite spastic at the slightest sound. Normally I would encourage the behavior, our own warning system, but when it is over the slightest breeze it becomes more of a call-to-arms for the infected.

  By noon we were ready to set sail and everyone was optimistically on board, except for Heather who untied the mooring lines before joining us. The diesel engines fired up perfectly, releasing a cloud of black soot into the air. Redundant hope filled our hearts as we set off for freedom. Slowly I pulled the throttle back into a slow reverse.

  “Here we go!” I shouted down at the others.

  Heather and Mia cheered as the propellers churned up the salty water and we began to inch backwards, even Nova barked aggressively in excitement. It was a moment of relief, a moment of serenity, a moment that abruptly ended as quickly as it came. The boat jolted to a shuddering stop as the engines began to rumble and grind. The deck shook violently as loud pops and bangs rang out from the exhaust. I quickly cut the engines, and looked back down at the deck as the others stared back up at me for answers. However I was as dumbfounded as they were, and at first I assumed it was something untimely, like a seized piston.

  “Heather, tie us back up!” I yelled.

  She did not hesitate to jump the broadening gap and back onto the dock to retie the lines as I made my way down onto the deck towards the stern to check the props. Maybe it was a snagged rope from a loose buoy, if only it were that simple. The water was clouded with a thick layer of black film, almost like an oil slick, but this was not oil. There was something else spewing up from the murky depths, something stirred up by the agitating props.

  As I attempted to identify the sludge, to determine the extent of our situation, the large ferry began to rock gentle before jolting about in the water. The other boats around us were also rocking back and forth, the entire bay of marine vessels was alive with motion, yet the sea was almost completely calm and motionless aside from a succession of barely noticeable waves. A few also appeared to be drifting towards us, slowly but surely. Maybe only a dozen or so boats, everything from fourteen foot aluminum dinghies and runabouts, to lobster and fishing vessels. It was as if their anchors had broken free, or that something was dragging them from the ocean floor.

  An Ear-piercing shriek escaped Mia's mouth as she pointed down at the water. Towards the props I found a boney hand reaching out of the water, its skin greenish-gray, and shriveled up like a prune. Methodically it grasped at drain that fed out of the back of the ferry, attempting to pull itself up. Within moments another hand appeared clutching hold of the prop itself. Then another, clawing desperately at the side.

  My attention was soon drawn back out across the bay only to find the horror that awaited us as hundreds upon hundreds of bodies rose from the depths. They sauntered up towards shore, tripping and stumbling on the barnacle encrusted rocks. Others pulled themselves laboriously up onto boats and the maze of docks. We were surrounded, the mystical horde that overthrew Fort Rockland was not so magical after all, only endlessly sinister.

  Their grotesque bloated bodies splashed up out of the shallows, making way for dry land, and fresh food. Seaweed clung to their shoulders and heads like piles of spaghetti, and barnacles dotted their clothes like a bad case of necrotic-dandruff. Some even had other organisms calling them home; starfish, snails, and even small crabs would desperately try to escape these Dredger's gaping mouths. And that smell, god-damn that smell! Like low tide on a hot day, that scent of decaying seaweed infused with decaying flesh. It took our breaths away, in fact even Heather had succumb to the stench and hurled up last night’s crow-feast. It was all too much to overcome, and panic quickly began to sink its claws into our hearts.

  “My GOD!” I cried out as I watched the horde rising to the surface.

  Heather pulled Marky back onto the dock and quickly headed towards the gates. Firmly I grabbed hold of Mia's arm and dragged her along as I followed suit, leaving our supplies behind. But it was of no use, there was no way out, nowhere to go. As we approached the locked gate we could hear the clanging and scraping of a small contingent of slugs trying to claw their way in. It was as if these evil, cunning bastard
s had set a trap! How is it possible that the presumed dead can somehow plan and execute a hunt? Why do I still question their inescapable versatility, they are truly the inheritors of this earth.

  Trying to get a grip on the reality of the situation, we all scattered around, trying to find a way out. To find a place to hide. Without hesitation I hauled Mia into a small maintenance shed and shut the door, leaving Heather and Marky behind to fend for themselves. It was the only option I had, from day one my only concern was for us, Heather was merely a comfortable distraction. Mia however did not see it as such and fought me, trying to get out and help them, but I held her tightly to my chest as I braced the door with my back.

  Peering out the window next to us only increased my heart rate, there was so many of them, stumbling around, shoulder to shoulder. No longer in the hundreds, but quite possible the thousands. They scoured the fort for us, sniffing the air, and cocking their heads as they listened for our breathing. So many that at first I was unable to spot Heather or Marky, and assumed the worst for them.

  However Marky had found safety atop a blue caravan parked alongside a warehouse. He sat on the roof tightly curled up, hugging his knees as the dead desperately tried to reach for him. Heather was only a few yards away and had managed to climb halfway up the ladder of a watchtower, hanging by one hand and her pistol tightly gripped in her other. She cried as she looked back down at her only child, unable to do anything to save him. It would only be moments before the Dredgers managed to get a hold of him, and Heather knew it. Over and over, she cried out.

  “Marky, I love you!” But Marky did not hear her, all he could hear were the snarls, moans, and shrieks that surrounded him.