The Complete Colony Saga [Books 1-7]

by Collings, Michaelbrent

  Death converts all manner of painful pasts to present pleasures.

  Deep stuff, there. I could make millions in the fortune cookie market.

  Do zombies eat fortune cookies?

  Someone was pulling him. Made sense – even in a world as insane as the one in which he had recently found himself, gravity still seemed to be working. So the fact that he hadn't fallen into the river meant someone was helping. A strong hand encircled his ankle, a grip so tight it was almost painful.

  He heard a grunt. Someone exhaling with effort.

  Buck?

  He couldn't look. He couldn't move a single muscle without unclenching them all, and that would mean losing Ken.

  A few long moments and the hand finally pulled him fully onto the bank.

  A few longer moments and Ken – Ken's body – joined Christopher on the bank. He tried to let go of his friend. Couldn't. His hand wouldn't open.

  He settled for looking back. To thank Buck. It couldn't have been Maggie. He could still hear her sobbing some feet away.

  But it wasn't Buck.

  "You must have a very great death wish," said the newcomer.

  3

  "IT'S NOT A DEATH WISH," said Christopher. His body – specifically, his mouth – seemed to be operating on autopilot. No thought, just stimulus-response.

  Thought was something reserved for civilized times. Barbarity demanded only base instinct.

  The man standing behind him, one gnarled hand constricting the blood flow to Christopher's right foot, looked like he was likely more at home in the new world than he had been the way things used to be. He wore a ghillie suit: a full-body camo outfit of the type favored by military snipers, the most serious hunters, and survivalist whack-jobs. Camo-print base, with frond-like bits of twine and fabric trailing off it, all colored various shades of green and gray and brown. His head was covered, too, a green mesh hood with the same stringy sheets coming off it like flayed tree-flesh.

  Still, even the full-body covering couldn't quite subdue the gray beard that poked out from under the face mask. Christopher wondered if he had just been rescued by a renegade cousin of the Duck Dynasty guys, or maybe some Grateful Dead fan who would turn out to be completely tie-dyed beneath the suit.

  A long hunting rifle with a scope was slung over the man's shoulder. Christopher remembered Elijah. Remembered the huge black man pointing a gun at Maggie and her youngest daughter, Lizzy, after shooting Ken.

  Remembered a loud crack and then Elijah's head exploding.

  This must have been how. This must have been who.

  "Thank you," he said. The words came out with difficulty. He didn't even know what he was thanking this stranger for. For killing Elijah? For stopping Ken from being lost? For saving Christopher?

  The hood of the ghillie suit went up and down slowly. "You are welcome," said the voice. It was deep but pleasant; almost sounded as though it was making its way through a smile. Then the head swiveled. "Are there any more of them?"

  Again, Christopher's thoughts tangled. It didn't help that Maggie was still screaming. The shrieks were petering out, but still had enough power to dig into the folds of Christopher's brain, to shove aside his ability to think straight.

  He kept thinking of his baby. Seeing his little girl, Carina. The bracelet he gave her. The way her head broke in two when he hit her with the axe.

  "Are there any more of them?" asked the voice again. More insistently this time.

  Buck answered. "Yeah," he said. His voice, always seeming a bit too high in pitch for someone so large, seemed even higher. Pinched with exhaustion and grief.

  More than that. What's going on with him now?

  "One guy," Buck continued. "Maybe a woman, too. Probably not, though, she got –" He cut off, glancing at Ken for a moment. "She got hurt, probably out of commission. But the guy's coming."

  "Are you sure?" asked the man in the suit.

  Christopher didn't have to answer. A shot cut through the sky.

  A red flower bloomed on the newcomer's suit of greenery and vines.

  The man who had saved them pitched backward.

  Fell.

  4

  BUCK YIPPED. CHRISTOPHER felt a laugh bubble up at the sound. Inappropriate, but wasn't that all laughter was? An inappropriate moment caught in our gut, struggling to get out in fits and starts?

  He tamped it down.

  Other things to think about.

  The ghillie suit was a tangle of green and brown, a sodden bush in the mud. The man inside groaned and rolled over. Sat up.

  "That was not nice," he said. Voice a hoarse whisper.

  Christopher tried to tell him to stay down. The shooter was Aaron. Had to be. The cowboy was deadly up close, deadly from afar. He was neutralizing the threat: the man with a weapon, the man who had killed one of Aaron's helpers –

  (Or was it the other way around? Was Aaron helping Elijah? Wasn't Aaron our friend? How the hell did this happen? When did we fall apart?)

  – with a well-placed shot. The newcomer had been shot in the shoulder. And there was no way Aaron had missed. It was a shot meant to lay a man out without killing him. Aaron didn't kill –

  Not unless it's necessary. Not unless it's the monsters, or the two little girls.

  And are they the monsters?

  No answer to that. Not yet. Certainly they were more – less? – than just a two- and seven-year-old.

  Another shot. The man in the portable duck blind grunted. Another hit, but this time he didn't go down.

  "Dude, fall," said Christopher. His skin prickled. Somehow he knew that the next shot would be somewhere final. Would kill the man.

  "I do not think so."

  Christopher was finally struck by something: the hunter's beard said redneck or roadie, but his voice, his choice of words, said something quite different. And was there the slightest trace of an accent there?

  Christopher wasn't sure what he was, but the newcomer was more than just a hillbilly in camo.

  The man moved. Fast. Faster than anyone Christopher had ever seen other than Aaron. Maybe even faster than the cowboy. In a fluid motion the hunter shrugged his shoulder – the shoulder that had two bullet holes in it, and not the slightest hesitation or cry of pain – and dropped his head. The rifle on his back swung around. He rammed it against his bad shoulder. Aimed it. Pulled the trigger.

  All this in less than a second. Much less.

  The man grunted again. Not pain, satisfaction.

  "Did... did you kill him?"

  That was Buck. Finally finding words. Christopher realized that none of them had even seen where Aaron was firing from. Only the hunter. And he had seen enough to place a single shot that somehow Buck believed had found its mark.

  Come to think of it, so did Christopher.

  The man in the ghillie suit stood. Only the smallest of noises to indicate what had to be agony tearing through his body.

  "We should go now," he said, and took off his hood. Christopher's jaw fell open, and he suddenly understood how a man could withstand the pain of two gunshot wounds. And not only that, but find it in himself to aim and shoot a gun with what Christopher sensed was perfect accuracy.

  "Holy good mother of holy hell," he said. Not his most original as far as cursing went, but it would have to do.

  The newcomer grinned at him. Or kept grinning, because he had been smiling when the hood came off. "Yes," he said. "I do get that a lot."

  5

  THE HUNTER – THAT WAS how Christopher thought of him now – looked into the distance, upstream on the canal. The direction he had fired. "Please follow me quickly," he said.

  "So you didn't kill him," said Buck. He sounded crestfallen.

  How things change, thought Christopher. Aaron used to be our main protector, Ken used to be our leader. Now Aaron is just one more killer on our trail. And our leader?

  He glanced at Ken's body. Couldn't help it.

  Still motionless. Eyes open, staring up in an eerie pa
rallel to the strange gaze of his children. Mouth open like theirs.

  But he wasn't breathing. Silent, still, and never to move again.

  Christopher looked away as the newcomer said, "No. I did not kill him. I did shoot him in the shoulder. I thought it was the fair thing." He grimaced and rolled his own shoulder, twisting his arm in the socket. Blood pulsed through the suit. "I would like to take care of this before I lose too much blood and pass out."

  He said it matter-of-factly.

  Of course he did. You would, too, if you looked like that.

  Christopher couldn't tear his gaze away from the man. The beard was long and gray. Did look just as much like that of a Grateful Dead roadie as he had imagine it would. But any resemblance to a toked-out rocker ended at the bristly line of the man's facial hair.

  That was where the tattoos began.

  Gray so dark it was almost black, the tattoos swirled in maze-like lines that combined graceful arcs and sharp jags. Covering nose, cheeks, forehead. Even the man's ears bore the marks, which Christopher saw were not smooth like normal tattoos but rather furrowed as though the patterns had been carved into the man's leathery skin.

  "You Māori?" said Buck.

  The man nodded. "Half. May we hold the rest of the questions until we get to my home?"

  Without waiting for a reply, the man went to Maggie. Still kneeling in the mud. No longer screaming, but gasping raggedly, silently. Christopher almost preferred the screams. Ken's wife –

  (widow)

  – sounded like she was trying desperately to keep breathing. Like her body was forcing itself to cling to life, to remind itself that it hadn't died with her husband.

  "Young Miss," said the hunter. Maggie didn't answer. "Young Miss, we must go."

  She kept panting, broken breaths tearing through her throat and mouth. Didn't speak, didn't even seem to see anything. She just stared at the spot where her husband had first fallen. Had died. Not at his body, but at the place where she had last seen him alive.

  The hunter sighed. He touched her. She didn't respond. He took her arm. She screamed.

  "Your friend will get up soon," he said. Christopher couldn't tell for whom the statement was intended, if the hunter was talking to Maggie or to the rest of the company.

  "How do you know?" said Buck.

  "Because he is very strong."

  "How do you know that?" said Buck. A trace of that perma-annoyed sound creeping back into his voice. Christopher was actually glad to hear it. It meant the dude wasn't mind-blown. And as much as he whined he was actually a clear head in a crisis and pretty good in a fight.

  "I know because anyone who can hit me twice with a handgun at that range in a storm is skilled. And great skill is usually a traveling companion of great strength."

  The Māori pulled gently on Maggie's arm. She continued gasping, but allowed him to drag her upward. Blood gouted from his shoulder. He grunted.

  Buck moved to Maggie's side. "Let me," he said.

  The hunter nodded. He slung his rifle again. Finally looked at Sally. The snow leopard remained near Liz, staring at the Māori with a sour expression. As though the big cat was aware of the presence of another hunter, and didn't like the competition.

  The Māori seemed to take the cat in stride, just asking, "Is the kitty housebroken?"

  Christopher shrugged. "Who's gonna complain if he's not?"

  The hunter laughed. It was a deep, full belly laugh. For a moment there wasn't a killer somewhere nearby, monsters ever at their heels. Just a laugh that was big and good and cleaner than the rain that still fell. "This is true," he said.

  He started walking. Blood running down the front of the ghillie suit, red on green like the world's shaggiest Christmas tree. Had to be agony, but he set a punishing pace across the fields north of the canal.

  "Where are we going?" said Buck. The big man hitched Hope a bit higher on his shoulder.

  The Māori didn't look back. Just said, "I already told you. We are going to my home."

  Christopher looked around. Nothing but fields. Mountains, but they were miles away. The hunter was right: Aaron was sure to get up. And follow.

  The group had to get away.

  But there was nowhere to go.

  6

  THEY MOVED IN SILENCE. Only Maggie's ragged breathing and the patter of rain and the occasional muffled thud of faraway thunder accompanied them as they slogged through the fields.

  The first field held scallions, the smell of onion crisp and piercing in the wet air. Then the company crossed a narrow dirt road – more of a track – and entered another field, this one harder to navigate. Asparagus grew on this one: long lines of green clumped on mounds that rose almost to Christopher's knees.

  The hunter continued his punishing pace. Buck followed as close as he could, dragging Maggie with him, Liz still in her carrier, the snow leopard following close behind.

  The hunter did not look back to see if the others were keeping up. Christopher sensed no cruelty in this, though. He thought it was more a combination of necessity and faith. Like the Māori knew they needed to get away before Aaron got up and came for them; knew that the company had survived this long and would continue to both keep together and keep up with him.

  Maggie said something. Christopher couldn't hear what at first. He hurried to her, worried she was going to break down.

  "We have to go back, we have to go back," she murmured.

  The hunter shook his head. "We cannot, Young Miss," he said. "It is not safe."

  "He's still back there."

  The man's voice was low. Firm, strong, but understanding. "Your husband?"

  Maggie sobbed. Answer enough.

  Christopher expected the Māori to tell her to move on, to hurry, to focus on survival. The man surprised him. He stopped. Turned and put his hands on Maggie's shoulders. "The dead are already safe," he whispered. "It is the living who need to be protected." He pointed at Lizzy, the toddler still hanging off Maggie's back like some strange parasite. Sally licked the little girl's dangling feet. "You need to take care of your girl." Then he smiled. "And we will come back for your husband."

  Maggie's gasps stopped suddenly. "What?" said Buck.

  "The living must be protected," said the hunter. "But the dead will be honored."

  He turned and resumed walking.

  Maggie followed. Not with Buck, but walking on her own.

  Christopher looked at Buck. The big man, gray hair hanging over a face that was red and puckered in a perpetual scowl, seemed utterly at a loss for words.

  "What the hell did that mean?" said Buck.

  "Hell if I know," said Christopher. "And watch your mouth." He nodded at Maggie, rapidly moving away with the hunter. He grinned. "You know damn well how she gets."

  "Damn right I do." Buck actually grinned back.

  They shrugged at each other then, neither of them sure what was happening. Nothing new there. But every time Christopher thought he was at least getting a handle on how crazy the world had gotten, a new kind of crazy arose.

  Zombies? Check. Sure. Why not?

  But wait! They also barf acid and scale slick walls with some kind of suction cup hands.

  Oh... and shooting them in the head just pisses them off. In fact, cut them in little pieces and the pieces come after you.

  Oh... and they seem to be learning. Acting in tandem, like pack animals that get smarter every second.

  Oh... and the dead don't all stay dead. They're just sleeper cells for the enemy, cadavers that can also rise up to become zombies. Slower than the ones that are turned because of bites, slightly less strong. But deadly. Capable of killing or Changing their prey.

  Oh... and there are the ones that can't see, that have weird growths on their faces that cover their eyes and heads and parts of their bodies, but they can still track you somehow.

  Oh... and there are the ones whose faces have become buzz saws that can cut through steel.

  Oh... and then there are the on
es like Dorcas and Ken's son, Derek, and Christopher's own baby: zombies who targeted the members of the group and tried to drive them to despair.

  Oh... and the people you trust – good people, people who really want what's best – they might try to kill you.

  Oh... and the world ending wasn't enough. There's always more. Always more to lose.

  Just like they had lost Ken. The man who had given them a quest, who had somehow seemed to hold them together.

  But death isn't the thing to fear. Damnation is what's around the corner.

  Christopher grappled with his thoughts, trying to pull them away from the brink of despair. From the look on his face, Buck was doing the same.

  They both looked away from one another. Swung back toward the hunter and Maggie.

  Only they weren't there.

  Or anywhere else.

  They were gone.

  7

  CHRISTOPHER STARTED running.

  "Where are they?" shouted Buck. He started moving, too, but Christopher knew the older man would be slower, holding Hope close to him, protecting her with his body.

  Christopher vaulted over a mound of asparagus.

  And almost fell onto the hunter.

  The man laughed as he caught Christopher, then laughed again at the look on Buck's face as the big man clambered over the ridge of crops and saw where Maggie had gone. Where Christopher had fallen.

  "Where did that come from?" said Buck.

  Christopher was right there with him. Could feel his face knotting up in a mixture of surprise, confusion, and irritation at the obvious delight the Māori was taking in his discomposure.

  "It has been here always. Or for some years, at the least." The man gestured for Buck to follow him, then moved away. Still holding Maggie by the arm. She had stopped gasping, but now seemed worse than she had been moments before. Nearly catatonic. Not good.