Age of the Undead, page 4
part #1 of Zombicide Black Plague Series
Gaiseric could see the guilt pressing down on Alaric and knew that it was the foundation of the knight’s fatalistic resolve. It wasn’t a question of survival for him – Alaric wanted to die here. He felt it was the only way he could atone. There was no appeal to self-preservation that would sway him from his course. Gaiseric would have to take a different track.
“If the zombies kill you, Gogol will escape justice,” he told Alaric, his mind racing as he seized upon the one argument that might sway the knight. “Have you thought of that? This task is too big for you to do alone, and you’ll need more than my help.”
“What are you saying?” Alaric asked, keeping his eyes on the opening to the passage.
Just the faintest hint of a smile played on the thief’s face. He knew he had the knight hooked, now he just had to reel him in. “I’m saying we get out of here. Go someplace where you can recruit the help you need.” Gaiseric patted one of his pockets, producing the sound of jingling coins. “I’ll pay if it’s necessary to hire the swords you need.” A brief laugh shook the rogue. “In a sense it’s your money anyway.”
Alaric shook his head. “The land is overrun. Every hamlet and village I saw was plagued with zombies.”
“Singerva,” Gaiseric said. “The town’s walls are thick and its garrison is hundreds strong. The zombies couldn’t overwhelm such a big town. It’s impossible.” As he spoke the last words, he wondered just who he was trying to convince, himself or Alaric. He saw, however, that there was doubt in the knight’s face now. He pressed the idea further. “If only a few escaped from the battle, it’s possible they don’t know what’s happened in Singerva. They need to be warned. Surely that’s a greater duty than revenge.”
With a growl, Alaric turned to Gaiseric. “What concern is it to you? When did a thief know anything about duty?”
Gaiseric shrugged. “I don’t, but you’ve said the countryside is teeming with zombies. If I want to put myself behind the safety of Singerva’s walls, I’ll need help getting there.” He smiled at the knight’s show of disgust. “An ugly truth is still the truth and we’ve got to trust each other.” He nodded at the passage. The sounds of the zombies were drawing closer. “There isn’t time to bicker. You asked me how I escaped the dungeons. Here’s your chance to see for yourself.” The levity left his tone and he gave Alaric a severe look. “I can’t take warning to Singerva alone. Do you think they’d give credence to whatever I told them? But if they heard about the zombies from a knight, the son of Baron von Mertz…”
The last point decided Alaric. “All right, Gogol will wait.” He turned from the opening and followed Gaiseric down the tunnel.
They had to navigate several turns through the forgotten corridors. At one corner they were suddenly set upon by a dark shape that lurched out of the shadows. Alaric froze when the figure came into the light. Gaiseric immediately saw why. The shape was that of the Baron.
Hesitant to strike his own father, Alaric was borne down to the floor by the zombie. His sword was knocked from his hand and went clattering across the ground. He caught the Baron by his shoulders, striving to hold him away even as the undead tried to sink its teeth into his flesh.
Gaiseric’s first instinct was to flee, but he’d gone only a few steps before he turned around and scurried to catch up the knight’s sword. Even if there were more zombies converging on the spot, he couldn’t leave Alaric to be killed by his own father. Taking up the longsword, he thrust it into the Baron’s temple, piercing its skull and stabbing the brain within. A dry groan rose from the zombie and it slumped to one side.
“Let’s hope that was the only one,” Gaiseric said, as he helped Alaric to his feet.
Alaric stared down at the twice-dead Baron. “He must have been wounded but slipped through a secret door before the zombies could finish him.” The knight looked along the floor, spotting the trail of blood left by the Baron. He bent down and retrieved a dropped kite shield, its face painted with the von Mertz coat of arms. Gaiseric recovered a discarded sword lying nearby and thrust it beneath his belt. He wasn’t used to swords, but it was a better weapon than the knife he had tucked away in his boot.
“We have to go,” Gaiseric nudged Alaric. “If there are more in the tunnels, they’re certain to have heard that racket.” He pointed down the corridor. “It’s not far to the dungeon. There’s another tunnel that leads off from the cells, an old escape route in case the castle was besieged. It opens up half a mile past the moat. One of the old castellans must have been worried about being locked up in his own dungeon,” he added with a chuckle.
Alaric seemed not to hear him, but kept staring at his father. “You will be avenged,” he vowed.
Gaiseric nudged the knight again. “Come on. We’ve still got to warn Singerva, remember?”
The knight slowly nodded and followed after Gaiseric. “I think it’s already too late, that this plague has struck every corner of the kingdom. You play long chances, thief. Pray to your gods that luck is still on your side.”
Chapter Three
Flesh and bone crumbled under the mace’s flanged edge. A spume of rotted brain and clotted blood dripped down the zombie’s face as the walking corpse crumpled to its knees. Its decayed hands reached out blindly for its destroyer, but before it could grab her leg, the fell magic animating it faded. Truly dead, the body slumped against the weaving stalks of grain around it.
Helchen Anders gave the fallen zombie scant notice. There were four others of its ilk still pursuing her through the field. From the wide-brimmed hat to the knee-high boots, everything she wore was black. Like a shadow, she drifted through the rows of wheat, her senses sharp for the least trace of her foes.
Yet it wasn’t panic that stirred Helchen as she crossed the field. A determination as cold and hard as the brutal mace she carried filled her heart. She fled only so far as necessary to find a new vantage point, to gain the brief respite needed so she could turn on her enemy. After dispatching the zombie that had nearly caught her, she returned her mace to the hook on her belt and grabbed the crossbow looped across her shoulder by a leather cord. Her fingers dipped into a pouch on her belt and removed a stubby bolt with a broad iron head. A grim smile pulled at her pale features. She’d seen such a bolt punch through a knight’s helm, she could imagine the havoc it would wreck on a zombie’s rotten skull.
Helchen paused in her retreat to load the bolt and crank back the crossbow’s string. It was a light weapon, designed to be easily concealed beneath a coat or cloak. A favorite trick of the Order of Witch Hunters and a nasty surprise for the heretics they hunted. There was only one downside to the small crossbows, and as she saw a zombie stagger out from behind the grain a dozen yards away, Helchen appreciated that flaw in full. Her weapon was designed for close distance and would rapidly lose both accuracy and penetration at range.
Biting her lip, Helchen took aim and forced herself to wait. She could hear the other zombies stumbling through the wheat but couldn’t fix their positions. If they were too close, they might surround her before she could get off a shot. If the one she was looking at represented the enemy vanguard, she might be able to drop it and reload before the rest even knew where she was.
“Destroy them,” Helchen told herself. “Fight until every last one of them is no more.” She’d been remorseless against the Order’s enemies, and she wasn’t about to relent when there were foes who’d given her even greater cause to hate them.
The salty tang of blood dripped into her mouth, the tension in her body making Helchen’s teeth tear her lip. She was grateful for the pain and reflected on its usefulness. Against spells and enchantments, a witch hunter was taught that pain was the best way to free the mind from distraction. Just now, she needed her focus to be keen, ready to shoot the very instant the zombie was near enough to be certain of hitting it.
The zombie lurched onwards, its gait so ungainly that Helchen thought it must trip over its own feet before too long. Yet somehow, the creature’s clumsiness never brought it crashing to the ground. Closer it came, its arms flailing ahead of it as it sensed it was nearing the witch hunter. As it closed she could see details that had been obscure to her before. The blue-checked pattern of the apron, largely obscured by bloodstains, could be discerned. The wooden clogs on the feet, their tops decorated with painted flowers. The copper necklace that poked out from the gory ruin of a torn throat. All of these told Helchen that this was no stranger. In life, the zombie had been a milkmaid named Miranda, one of her brother’s servants. The witch hunter used to help her churn butter on her infrequent visits to the farm. She’d shared Miranda’s confidences, the servant’s hopes to marry a fletcher named Fritz, her worries about an elderly father who lived in the village of Mertz.
All her memories of Miranda flashed through Helchen’s mind. She could hear the milkmaid’s demure voice, see that shy smile, smell the scent of lavender in her hair. She’d been one of the few people in the witch hunter’s life who didn’t regard her with suspicion and fear. She’d been one of her only friends.
Helchen squeezed the crossbow’s trigger without hesitation the instant the zombie staggered into range. She watched as the bolt smashed through the corpse’s forehead and shattered its skull. The undead spilled over onto its back and was still.
“That wasn’t Miranda,” Helchen whispered, as she fitted another bolt to the crossbow. “Not anymore.” She glared at the fallen zombie. The milkmaid was far from the first monster wearing a familiar face that she’d dispatched since returning to her brother’s farm. Nor would it be the last.
The witch hunter was still cranking back the crossbow’s steel string when zombies emerged from the vast stretches of wheat and onto the narrow lane. Helchen whipped around and hastily shot one of the undead. The bolt crashed through the creature’s hip and caused the leg beneath it to buckle. The zombie went sprawling in the dirt. Before it could rise, it was trampled by the rest of the pack.
The crossbow dangled from the strap looped over her shoulder as Helchen drew her mace once more. There was a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach now. The zombie she’d just dropped and the ones staggering towards her weren’t from the initial group she’d encountered. As though to drive home that point, she spotted the remaining members of that original band walking past Miranda’s remains. By accident or design, the zombies were closing in on her from two sides.
“Saves me the trouble of tracking you down,” Helchen hissed. She swung her mace, smashing through stalks of grain to crush the clutching hand of a zombie. The undead gave no notice of its wound, but pressed on, wagging the gory stump at her. A second blow shattered its head and sent it pitching to the ground.
Three more from the initial group and what she judged to be at least five still mobile in the second. Helchen backed away, trying to put distance between herself and the undead. She needed room to work, enough vantage to whittle down their numbers with the crossbow. Reluctantly, she realized she’d need to fall back to the farmhouse. She had no great desire to look at what the zombies had left there… and the things she’d been forced to do.
“But it’ll let me destroy more of you,” Helchen rationalized. Her mace exploded through the knee of a zombie harvester, causing it to stumble and veer into the path of those following its advance. The undead collided in a tangle of rotten limbs and cadaverous faces. While they were extricating themselves, the witch hunter turned and sprinted down the dusty lane.
The sound of rustling grain to her left gave Helchen pause. The noise wasn’t that of the staggering, clumsy tread of zombies. A flash of hope filled her heart. A survivor! Someone had escaped the slaughter! Images of her nephew flashed through her mind. She’d found no trace of the boy in her brother’s house. It might be he’d escaped the slow-moving undead during the massacre.
“Over here!” Helchen called out. The running sound diverted from its original course, plowing through the grain directly towards her. “Over here,” she said, but now there was uncertainty in her tone. Why wasn’t this person responding to her?
Suspicion made her grip her mace more tightly and keep it angled in the direction of the rustling grain. Helchen took a step back just as a figure erupted from the field. Indeed, it was Gustl, her eldest nephew. Or rather, it had been. Gustl’s clothes were caked in dried gore, his skin polluted with a gray, lifeless tone. The man’s shoulder was exposed and bore a grisly wound. His eyes were hollow, devoid of any thought, only a pitiless hunger.
Unlike the other undead Helchen had fought, Gustl sprang at her with fearsome animation. She was stunned by the crazed ferocity of the thing, unlike any zombie she’d seen before. Gustl was like a rabid animal as it bared its teeth and ripped at her with clawed hands. Her caution, however, served her in good stead. In its initial leap, the creature slammed into her mace, crushing several ribs. The impact snapped her from her shock and she was able to push it back and keep it from coming to grips with her.
While the corpse of her nephew slavered and raged, Helchen noted the sounds of other undead hurrying through the fields. Runners, she thought of the things, comparing them to the plodding walkers she was accustomed to. Appreciating she had no time to waste, she brought her boot kicking against Gustl’s chest. The blow pushed it free of the sharp flanges of her mace. Gustl didn’t hesitate but lunged back to the attack. Helchen had counted on the thing’s mindless ferocity. As it sprang for her, she twisted aside and brought the edges of her mace slashing across Gustl’s neck. The zombie’s own momentum provided the extra force to decapitate it. The body crashed into the field while its head went spinning down the lane.
Helchen turned and ran. The runners completely altered the situation. She couldn’t rely on being quicker than the undead or depend on them just shuffling towards her in a mindless mob. It was doubly important now to get out of the fields and find a defensible position.
The noise of grain rustling now rose from both sides of the lane. Helchen couldn’t tell how many runners were hurrying after her. It might only be four or five or it could be dozens. A glance back down the dusty path showed her at least that many of the slower walkers in pursuit of her.
If she could reach the barn, Helchen felt she’d at least be able to hold her own. Grimly, she recalled evidence her brother had tried to make a last stand there. He had been lured down, no doubt to aid some member of his family. That vulnerability, at least, Helchen didn’t have to worry about. Once she climbed into the loft, the undead were going to pay a heavy toll to get her to leave it.
The fields opened out to the cleared ground where the farmstead stood. The half-timber house with its turf roof was in ruinous condition, its windows and doors smashed down by the undead. A few bodies lay sprawled outside, zombies Helchen had dispatched when she’d first returned to her brother’s home. She scowled at the corpses and tried to blot out the image of that hideous combat. At least she knew her brother was truly at rest.
Helchen started to turn towards the big stone barn away to the side of the house when she noticed movement in one of the windows. She could hear the runners in the fields behind her. If more of their kind were in the farmhouse, they’d be able to intercept her before she reached the loft. “Marduum,” she invoked the stern God of Vigilance, patron of her order, “grant that they’re walkers.”
Having muttered her brief prayer, the witch hunter sprinted towards the barn. The moment she did, she saw a figure lunge out from the house. Focused on reaching the loft, she didn’t delay to take in more than a quick impression. She heard footsteps racing after her, spurring her on. When she decided she couldn’t outrun her pursuer, she stopped and spun around, slashing her mace at her adversary’s neck the way she had Gustl.
Her pursuer came up short, falling backwards in his haste to avoid the brutal swing. The look of shock on his face was far too expressive to be that of a zombie, the howl of protest that rose from his mouth too articulate for one of the undead.
“Wait, now!” the man shouted, holding his arms out to his sides and dropping the sword he carried. “I’m not one of them! I’m alive!”
“Looter.” Helchen let the epithet drip from her tongue. She fixed the man with an icy glare, then nodded to the sword he’d dropped. “If you want to stay alive, pick that up and follow me.”
“Looter’s a strong word,” the man objected. “Scrounger is less hostile.”
“Get that sword and hurry…” but Helchen’s admonition for haste was already too late. From the field a pair of zombies jogged into view. They tarried a moment, but once they spotted the witch hunter and the thief, the creatures resumed their feral rush. Somehow, she thought, the rest of the pack must have sensed the eagerness of the first runners, for soon there were four more hurrying out from behind the wheat.
The man snatched up his sword and started to run back for the house. The witch hunter bit her lip in frustration. “Stay here! We can’t outrun them, so our only chance is to fight!” The looter looked anything but pleased, yet to his credit he fell in beside Helchen. Perhaps, she thought, he was more fool than coward.
“Alaric! We’ve got trouble!” the thief shouted at the top of his lungs. The noise only agitated the zombies more. Like a pack of starving wolves, the runners hurtled towards them.
Helchen smashed the first zombie with a crippling sweep of her mace. One of its legs was shattered and it tumbled into the dirt. Her return caught the zombie beside it, staving in the side of its head. The creature veered off and managed a few more steps before it crashed to the ground.
The thief sprang forward as a third zombie charged for Helchen. His sword stabbed deep into the thing’s gut, a mortal wound for anything truly alive, but less than a nuisance to the runner. The creature twisted around, widening the cut as it did so. Its clawed hands reached for the looter, and a hungry groan gargled from its gaping mouth.
