Through The Valley

by Yates, B. D.

  The club kept moving like a battering ram, spinning Emmit on his heels. It finally stopped when it connected with the face of another Link, the corpse of a morbidly obese woman in a floral sundress that had rotted and frayed to the point that the semisolid cottage cheese of its body was barely contained. Its gut skin was splitting open in long, football shaped tears, exposing the soapy layers of fat beneath.

  Wiped the fucking smile off your face didn't I, bitch?

  The fat Link no longer had a lower jaw; Emmit had sent it spiraling through the air like a miniature missile. Its tongue dangled from the gaping maw like a necktie, black and coated with an oily film. Its squinted eyes told him he had not, in fact, taken its senseless smile. Emmit roared like a lion and brought the club around for another swing. The impact nearly decapitated it this time, the mop of hair whipping to the side as its head leaped from its shoulders and snagged on a single strip of skin, dropping and springing back up like a bungee jumper. It took several more steps before finally collapsing, the dangling head thudding off of its ample chest and landing neatly in the crook of its arm.

  How am I doing this? I'm not violent, I'm not a violent man—

  But he was. He didn't even get a good look at the next Link he dispatched. All he knew was that another one of the shambling corpses was closing in behind him, and he let gravity do the work for him, swinging the club with one arm in a wide arc. It slammed into the creature's rib cage and crushed its way in, smashing a foot or so deep into its abdomen. The corpse folded neatly sideways, shutting like a book, and toppled over. It was still whispering as more encroaching Links began to trample it.

  Outnumbered no chance we can't kill them all too many too many TOO MANY—

  Poke, as detestable as he was, was an absolute surgeon with his spear. His tattooed head was cocked to one side, aiming down the shaft as if it had a rifle sight. In lightning quick moves, he would thrust it forward, piercing the monsters just under their foreheads, straight through the bridges of their noses. He had a neat pile of bodies building around him like sandbags, and he was adding to it all the time. You could almost be jealous of his skill if it weren’t such a bloody one.

  Muddy was not faring so well. He only had one arm to work with, and Emmit could tell by the slump of his shoulders and his gasping breaths that he was growing weary. His spear thrusts were sloppy and missing their mark, cleaving off ears and cheeks but never landing a killing blow. Tears glistened on his reddened cheeks.

  "Get out of here!" Emmit cried at him, using his club to push a Link back into the wall of bodies and arms behind him. "Muddy, get out!"

  Muddy was hysterical. He wasn't even thrusting the spear now; he was swinging it, knocking it against the Links' heads in sharp but ineffective whacks that did nothing to stop them. The circle around him was shrinking.

  "Muddy!"

  The shaft of the spear connected with a solid skull, splintered, wrapped around it— and the spearhead went airborne, sailing through the softly falling snow with all the bad tidings of a hand grenade. It landed in the snow, leaving a bloody crater behind.

  Muddy's screams were high and shrill, the sound of an animal being eaten alive. They went on and on, as if he didn't need to breathe.

  Emmit couldn't count how many Links had him. It seemed like Muddy was budding new arms that immediately clasped and grabbed at him, hooking into his clothes and snatching at what little hair he had left. A pallid corpse hand was latched onto his neck, wrenching his head back at an awkward angle that strained the bones to the breaking point. The black poison was spreading like spilled ink across his skin, tendrils of it branching up his cheeks and sprouting tentacles around his ears. Another hand slapped onto his naked forehead, jerking his head, playing tug of war. His face took on the look of burnt paper as he screamed ceaselessly, struggling and kicking against the heaping bodies that were overwhelming him. The sound of it broke Emmit's heart. Their voices, accusing Muddy of being an arsonist, a firebug, a murderer, a sinner, overlapped into an overwhelming hiss like loud static.

  "Poke, they got Muddy!" Emmit shrieked in a panicked, cracking voice. He hoisted the club and charged toward the mass of bodies, ignoring the fact that his own death circle of Links was forming.

  Poke put down two more Links, adding their slack bodies to his pile, then whirled around and sprinted toward Muddy, his spear arm cocked back and ready. His jaw was clenched tight, and he didn't blink, not once, even as he slammed the shuffling dead out of his way with lunges and shoulder charges.

  He'll save him, he's going to help me save him, he's an asshole but—

  Poke stopped long enough to aim down the shaft of his spear, lifted it high above his head— and drove it directly into Muddy's thrashing thigh, neatly cleaving through the layers of clothing that were meant to protect it. An explosive gout of bright, fresh blood erupted from the wound as the femoral artery severed, painting the trampled snow underfoot with abstract Rorschach designs and long, sweeping fan shapes. Unbearably, Muddy's screams intensified. They seemed to cancel out all other noise, filling Emmit with such a colorful palette of emotions that his ability to process thoughts short circuited. He froze, his mouth agape. He couldn't believe what he had just seen.

  "There ain't no saving his ass!" Poke shrieked, already running away with his spear tucked under his arm like a tail between his legs. "They're focused on him; we can get away!"

  As he blurred past, he seized Emmit by the collar and dragged him away too, nearly pulling him off his feet. His shoes squelched in the slush as he pinwheeled his arms, fighting for traction. Finally, his feet took hold, and he was pumping his arms in unison with the club held sideways like a riot shield.

  Something was nagging at him like a thorn in his mind. Something he had forgotten or missed. Something important. He forced himself to ignore the growing horde of Links, which were beginning to resemble a mosh pit at a rock concert as they clamored to reach their screaming prey. He stopped running and stole a quick glance around the area. His eyes happened across the small red crater Muddy's spear tip had left.

  Might not be a bad idea to have a secret weapon up my sleeve, just in case. Just in case.

  He snatched the spear tip out of the snow, wincing at the grimy feel of it as his fingers slid across the carved stone. He stuffed it down the front of his clothing "armor", letting it tumble and slide down before coming to a secure resting place just under his right nipple. The cold relief he felt as it touched his baking skin was indescribable.

  They had Muddy on the ground now and were dog piling onto him. That was all Emmit cared to see before darting away to catch up with Poke. He bobbed and weaved like a boxer under outstretched arms and wagging fingers, carefully following the trail they had made and threading between the stoic trees. Poke was damned fast; Emmit hadn't spent more than a minute retrieving his new weapon but Poke was nowhere to be found, other than a few drops of blood that had fallen from his spear. Once again, he was on his own.

  Muddy's shrieks carried farther than Emmit could have ever imagined, following his retreat all the way back to the shabby little cabin. But it wasn't the screams that would stick with him, he thought, nausea sloshing around in the pit of his stomach like bad medicine. It was the way the screams had changed after Muddy had suffered long enough, winding down like a tornado siren as whatever black sickness the Links carried in their touch took him over. The screams became less frantic, less shrill. Less urgent, somehow. Then they rose into titters of drunken, maniacal laughter.

  Chapter 8: Marked

  Roy's team hadn't made it back yet. Emmit left his blood clotted club outside and let himself into the cabin, his feet tugging against his legs like lead weights and his body screaming with the stiff, swollen bite of pulled muscles. He slid his fingers under his glasses and rubbed at his eyes, which were dry and painfully itchy. It felt like the more he rubbed at them, the itchier they got. When they began to burn and water, he made himself stop.

  Poke was hunched down in front of the
fireplace like a dirty, bony gargoyle. He had removed all his clothing except for a pair of baggy blue sweatpants and was busy loading chopped firewood into the fireplace. The fire crackled and popped as it began to grow, hungrily eating the dry lumber and filling every sunken hollow between Poke's ribs with wavering shadows. Emmit had been right about him; the rest of his body was tattooed here and there, giving his narrow back the appearance of a crudely drawn roadmap with bad doodles in the margins. One tattoo stood out from the others, however, and it became clear to Emmit why Poke and a black man like the Reverend might not get along. Between his shoulder blades was a sloppily tattooed flag with a Nazi swastika on it, and the words "white power" under it in spidery letters.

  Jesus, this guy just gets worse and worse.

  Poke looked over his shoulder only briefly, and the firelight made him look even fouler. His face looked like it had somehow been deformed by the rotten ugliness inside him, like pus distending a pimple to the bursting point. He cocked his thumb at the door Emmit had just come through.

  "Behind the cabin, there's a couple hollowed out logs. Fill 'em with snow and bring 'em in, right here by the fire. All of them. We need water to drink, and a bucket bath is the closest thing to a shower we get."

  Emmit began to peel off a few layers of his stitched “armor”, letting his sodden pants and shirts plop to the floor beside his sleeping pile. He didn't move.

  Poke's hand stopped halfway to the fireplace, still clutching the small stump of a branch. He turned again, slowly, exaggerating his annoyance.

  "You deaf, Papa?"

  "No, I heard you just fine," Emmit said, this time slamming a musty long-sleeved shirt that said "World Champion Beer Drinker" to the floor. "I just don't take orders from racists. Or murderers."

  Poke laughed, a single blat of air that sounded like a dry fart. He tossed the wood into the fire with a little extra force, sending a shimmering vortex of glowing embers spiraling up into the chimney. He stood, crossing each arm over his chest and pulling on his elbows to stretch his small, hard pectoral muscles.

  "Oh, you don't huh? The fuck do you think Roy is? What the fuck do you think Muddy was?"

  Emmit clenched his fists until the nails dug into his skin, hard enough to sting, and his knuckles felt like they could split the skin around the bone just from sheer pressure. Was. How easily Poke could change from present tense to past tense, scarcely minutes after Muddy had been killed in front of them. Emmit hadn't known the man very well, and he knew Poke wasn't wrong— Muddy had told him with his own mouth that he had killed innocent people, though it hadn't been intentional. He had felt himself growing to like Muddy regardless, both out of sympathy for him and because he had brought a carefree, happy-go-lucky air to the solemn rigidity of the camp. And now he was gone.

  Muddy had lived a turbulent life and then had been made to die a bad death— a death that may have been inevitable, but it had been hastened, ensured, by the piece of shit standing in front of him. Emmit had felt the pain of a Link's touch, several times. No one deserved to die screaming with that black, poison fire claiming their flesh and eating them alive.

  "He wasn't a perfect person. Nobody is, Poke. But you didn't have to do what you did to him. You could have—"

  "I could have stood there with my dick in my hand like you did?" Poke snarled, holding his arms out to the side and walking towards Emmit quickly enough to make him lift his fists and hold them defensively in front of his chest. "If we would have gotten into that mess, we'd all three be dead. If anything, you should be kissing my ass, for saving yours."

  As Poke said the word "yours", he jabbed one finger into Emmit's chest, digging painfully into the tender muscle and knocking him off balance. Emmit felt the severed spearhead tumble down the inside of his shirt and snag on the waist of his innermost pair of pants.

  The rage, the same hot brutality that had taken control of him as he fought the walking dead, came back in a rush like the flame erupting from a jet engine. He saw nothing but a deep shade of blood red and felt nothing but his own quickening pulse and the boil of adrenaline surging through the tangled branches of his veins. His hand was in motion before he had even thought to throw a punch.

  Poke had been anticipating it; hell, may have been wanting it. He snatched Emmit's fist out of the air effortlessly, jerked Emmit's body around backward, slammed his stony fist into the bend of Emmit's elbow and forced the clenched muscles to loosen, then wrenched the entire limb up as hard as he could— all in the span of about three seconds. The grinding, tearing pain in Emmit's shoulder was monstrous. He refused to make a sound; he would not give Poke the satisfaction of hearing how badly he was hurting him. Instead, he growled, each exhale whooshing out through gritted teeth. Poke half walked, half dragged him forward and slammed him face first into the wooden wall. Emmit saw spit fly from his lips and light on the rough surface of the logs.

  "I could break your arm if I wanted to, Papa," Poke said softly into his ear. The stink of his breath was like an open sewer, hot and sticky on Emmit's neck. Emmit pulled away. Poke wrenched his arm higher. Emmit felt his hand going numb, filling with thousands of stabbing needles instead of blood. "I could break your arm and make you look just like your old pal Muddy. Would you like that?"

  Emmit didn't respond. His jaw bones ached, and his teeth made little grinding noises against each other. His mouth felt like an active fault line. His brain did too.

  "Now here's what happened, Papa. Muddy broke his spear and the Links swarmed him. You saw that happen. We couldn't get close enough to save him. Then we got swarmed, and we bailed out. That's what you saw, right?"

  Emmit took deep shuddering breaths, his eyes squeezed shut and his free hand flexing and releasing like a dying octopus. He wanted nothing more than to get his hands on Poke, pin him down, dig his fingers into his black eyes and rip them out with his bare fingers. But he was caught like a rat in a trap, and any effort he made would probably result in a swiftly and neatly broken arm. But he didn't have to fucking answer—

  His arm was yanked up so high that he could feel his thrashing fingers brush against the hair on the back of his neck. Something in his shoulder popped with a sound like the logs burning in the fireplace. This time he did cry out; he couldn't stop it. His arm was twisted at an angle he could never have reached on his own, an angle he had never experienced before. The pain was hot and radiating, just like the pizza ovens had felt on his hands and face at his dead-end job, back in "his" time.

  "I saw it," he said, in a dark voice that was not his own. He was panting now, every breath full of all-consuming hate and agony. He felt himself pulled away from the wall, and then he was slammed back into it. The air whooshed out of his gut, and strangely, he was fleetingly reminded of how god damned hungry he was. Of all the times to be thinking about food.

  "You saw what, faggot?"

  Emmit couldn't see Poke, but he could hear the smile on his face. He imagined driving the broken spear up through the soft spot under Poke's chin, stabbing it through and into the roof of his decaying cave of a mouth, pinning it shut forever.

  "We couldn't save him, now fucking LET. ME. GO."

  "Man, you wouldn't last a day in the pen. You'd be taking all flavors of meat in the ol' prison wallet," Poke said, releasing Emmit's arm and then patting it gently, smoothing out the material of his sleeve. The muscles felt locked and twisted, and Emmit had to physically pull his own arm back to the position it normally hung in. He rubbed and massaged his shoulder muscles, but that pain wasn't going away anytime soon. If it ever did again.

  Poke chuckled at him.

  "Boy, you really don't like me much, do you, Papa?"

  Emmit fought the urge to pounce on him with every ounce of self-control he had left. The tanks were dangerously low. Emmit envisioned a little gauge, hanging on the rounded wall of bone between his eyes, the needle hovering just over the letter "E". Above the gauge, he imagined a little danger light that blinked and glowed red, filling the inside of his head w
ith hazardous luminescence.

  Danger. Danger. Extreme pressure. Danger. Danger.

  "Honestly, Poke? I wish it had been you that got killed out there," Emmit said shakily. "Clean this place up a little bit." He thought he might regret those words, especially if Poke decided to, say, grab a hunk of firewood and pound them back into his mouth. Instead, Poke laughed at him again, mimicking a deep belly laugh with his hands folded under his ribs. It made Emmit feel small. Everyone made him feel small. The needle dropped past "E" and the danger light went a solid red. Explosion imminent.

  "Alright Papa, I'll tell ya what. Roy don't like it when his guys fight. What do you say we settle up, right here, right now?"

  Trap. It's a trap.

  "I can't beat you in a fight," Emmit grumbled begrudgingly. Poke waved the confession away like it was a fly loitering in his face.

  "I don't mean a fight. I already beat you, and I damn near broke your arm. I'm saying I'll give you a free shot."

  He tapped the oily skin covering his cheek and chin, cocking his head to one side.

  "Right here. Give me everything you got, knock me out cold if you can. Then we'll be square."

  Emmit thought, You and I will never be square, Poke. I watched you kill someone to save your own ass and now you want me to lie about it. You don't square that.

  Emmit didn't budge, and Poke feigned confusion.

  "What, you don't like my offer?"

  Emmit stared deep boreholes through him, focusing instead on rubbing his aching arm. He was clenching it rather than massaging it, causing himself more pain than he was easing.

  "Ohhhhh, I get it. You don't know how to punch a guy in the face, is that it? You gotta wait for your nigger friend to come back and do it for you. If he's not dead too, that is."

  That smile. That rotten, shit eating chemical-eroded smile. Emmit felt like he could burst into a frenzy of tears at any moment. He didn't dare allow Poke to see him lose it, but sometimes he got so angry, so overwhelmed with emotion, that tears were the only outlet he had. Sometimes, it was either cry or lose his mind entirely— but a man crying made him look weak, so then the tears fueled the anger even more. It was a vicious, toxic cycle. Emmit usually just did his best to not get angry at all.